


Runs In The Family

by narceus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings Apply, F/M, Gen, Long, Other Pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 95,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narceus/pseuds/narceus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It used to be, every witch and werewolf this side of the Rockies knew the name ‘Hale’.  Every hunter, too; well, that part goes without saying.</p><p>Every hunter west of the Rockies knows the name ‘Argent’, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: This place has a history

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, this fic.
> 
> This fic is complete and beta'ed at about 97,000 words, or nine chapters + a prologue. It will be posted every 1-2 days over the next couple of weeks.
> 
> This story came out of nowhere and wrote itself over a period of about 6 weeks (blew every NaNoWriMo I've ever done out of the water), and after spending the past two and a half months editing it I'm still not entirely sure what happened. This is my novel about werewolves. I hope you like it.
> 
> I have to thank my entire beta pack: Darkfeanix, Nowishforwings, Mzminola, and the other people who gave me reactions and encouragement and pushed me to keep going when I hated it all. There is not a single word of this that would exist if not for Crown of Weeds, who watched it get written in 300-word chunks via Gchat, all 95+ thousand words of it; if I've been alpha to a pack of betas, dealing with this story over the past couple of months, then she's my fanon!Stiles.
> 
> I tumbl at [C is for circinate](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com/), so feel free to stop by, poke around, give me a follow or just say hi!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Do heed the fic warnings!**
> 
>  
> 
> This story contains:
> 
> Suicide (off-camera) and the aftermath of suicide. One character who is hella determined to send himself the same way. Physical assault, canon-typical violence. Torture and implied torture. Statutory rape and sexual manipulation of a minor by an adult. Peter Hale being his creepyass self.
> 
> This story also includes an abusive family situation that I don’t entirely know if I have the words to properly describe (at least in less than 90k). Extremely controlling authority figures, lots of psychological programming, enforced isolation from the outside world, threats of domestic violence, one scene where somebody actually bleeds and a lot of scenes where somebody’s afraid of it. It is, in its basics, a cult, although I don’t know if the actual word gets used anywhere in the story.

It used to be, every witch and werewolf this side of the Rockies knew the name ‘Hale’. Every hunter, too; well, that part goes without saying.

They were one of the great families back in the early 1900’s, all the way up through most of the last century. They weren’t one of the _old_ families, the really old ones who could trace their lineages back through Europe for centuries past, but they were strong. They’d proven themselves strong. They’d made a mark on the fabric of this country, in the secret, shadowy places most people never knew about. Derek’s father always told him, one hand on Derek’s shoulder and stone surety in his eyes, that theirs was a name to be proud of.

There weren’t many who’d hunted like the Hales.

 

The Hale family history was long, and boring, and as dusty as the old mansion in Beacon Hills that Derek’s parents used to make a point of checking in on once a year, though nobody’s lived there since his father’s father died in 1997. They’d been in California since 1873, but they didn’t start hunting until after 1898, when Samuel Hale got back from the Spanish-American war and his brother Luke lost his sheriff’s badge over a string of murders and a pair of omegas, lurking just outside the boundaries of the town. They helped tame the West, before World War I. Lucas Hale and his wife Deborah took down an enormous pack of werewolves working as criminal enforcers in mob-run Vegas during the 20’s; their daughter was Emilia Hale Callahan, and everybody’s heard of the Callahans. Most of the Hale blood that’s left, these days, is married into the Callahans, or the Storms, the Fitzurses down around Louisiana, or gone up into Canada. There’s not a lot of Hales left in California, any more.

It happens. Derek’s aunts and uncles all have their own hunts, and his parents always had theirs. Hunters don’t stay in one place for very long, and it doesn’t do them much good to cling together when there are always more threats out there than white knights shining a light against the darkness. They’re not werewolves. They don’t need packs.

The last time he heard from one of his family members, it was a Christmas e-card from Uncle Peter, wherever Uncle Peter happened to be. It was some ridiculous animated thing with dancing penguins and music that came out of Derek’s laptop speakers when he opened the email in the middle of Starbucks. Very Uncle Peter.

He hasn’t seen Laura since last summer, when he tracked a motorcycle gang of bear-serkr from Phoenix to Dallas, and swung by her place in Austin before he headed back west. She’s up in St. Louis now, he thinks, doing some kind of...consultation, or something, on a coven of witches. Laura likes cities. Derek never got it, really, even while they were living together. Give Derek a shotgun full of wolfsbane shells and a nice, empty forest with no collateral damage roaming around any day.

 

He’s working with a crew on a job about sixty miles outside of Detroit when the email comes in. Derek’s good alone, but it’s easier to put together some cash and a plausible excuse for your presence, when you’re working with an established hierarchy. This one’s a Callahan job; Derek has enough third and fourth cousins in the family that they call him up when they need an extra hand around. 

It’s an easy gig, and Derek’s only here as spare muscle, but he takes his turn on lookout duty, spends his days working out and training with the other guys, reading trashy spy novels, and avoiding his laptop. Peter always _does_ something to it whenever Derek sees him, and it always works faster afterwards, but it pops up with a million ‘helpful’ things Derek doesn’t really need and doesn’t know how to get rid of. He’s not entirely sure how _Google alerts_ are supposed to work, but he doesn’t think they’re supposed to include notifications of property transactions by people he’s never met in towns he doesn’t particularly want to go to. Derek wishes he had any idea whether getting half of this information broke some kind of law; he doesn’t mind engaging in criminal activity, but he really does prefer to know he’s _doing_ it.

Then comes the Thursday morning, a week and a half into January, when his email account opens itself (how does Peter set it to _do_ that, and can he make it _stop_?), and pops up with a bill-of-sale notification. One foreclosure, sixteen acres, wooded, seven bedroom, four and two half bath, purchased outright three weeks ago, in Beacon Hills, California. Name on the deed: Gerard Argent.

Derek stares at the computer screen for a long time before he grabs his cell phone.

 

Laura let them foreclose on the house. She let it go three and a half years ago, actually, when Derek turned 18 and they decided to go their separate ways. They hadn’t bothered to even go air it out since their parents died, and none of the other cousins wanted it. She’d have given it to Uncle Peter, but Uncle Peter was in Bhutan, or something, Burma, or Birmingham, and he told her to let it go, so she did. She didn’t need to keep paying the mortgage on a mansion nobody would ever use, just because her great-great-great-grandparents built it from the ground up.

She’s mostly just surprised that nobody bought it before, a house that size. She probably should’ve mentioned it to Derek, but honestly, she’d thought she had. They don’t talk much these days.

“ _Gerard Argent,_ ” Derek says into the phone, and Laura’s blood runs cold.

“Oh,” she says.

“I’m going, whether you are--”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Laura snaps. She’ll let her little brother face the Argents alone over her dead body, and nobody else will care about this like them. “Sacramento, three days. We’ll drive up together.”

“Make it two,” Derek says. Laura is already logging on to her computer, pulling up flight information.

“Done,” she says. “If you head out there without me, Derek...”

“I know,” he says. “You, too.”

 

Every hunter west of the Rockies knows the name ‘Argent’, too.

The pack is small. Five members, give or take; they pick up additional betas, here and there, and every so often a hunter will chalk up a new kill out of them, but it never seems to slow them down for long. They move, constantly. Most of the established packs, most packs that are as _old_ as the Argents, they pick a town near the wilds and stay there.

The Argents tend to leave shortly after the bodies start piling up.

Derek’s parents mentioned the Argents, in passing, half a dozen times before they died; he’s run into the name three or four times more since. There are so many monsters out there, and this pack is small, and quick, and hard as hell to track. Nobody’s ever _proved_ that they’re responsible for human deaths, except for those stray betas. Derek knows enough hunters to realize how little that means--but the Argent pack is still around, still running free under the sky.

There are two kinds of werewolf packs that haven’t been slaughtered yet. There are the ones that are too peaceful to be worth the trouble, the ones that live like they’re almost human, the ones Derek just plain doesn’t have time for, whatever the morality of the Code says either way. And there are the ones that are too much trouble to be worth the trouble, so far. Too clever. Too sly. Too dangerous and far too time-consuming to go after with too little chance of results, when there are lone omegas to hunt, and witches to keep an eye on, and big, established, permanent packs to check over.

Well, they’ve bought themselves a base, now. And Derek and Laura have nothing but time.

 

There are only five members of the Argent pack right now, but that's just fine. Cannon fodder comes and goes. Family is forever.

Gerard Argent is 'Grandpa', or 'Dad,' or 'Sir,' or 'God.' Gerard is red eyes and swift thundering retribution, loyalty that binds like a wolfsbane-rope tether, and Gerard is the werewolf’s native right to kill. Gerard is the inescapable, the omnipresent. He's the Alpha. He's life. He's death.

Chris is the ground that holds beneath their feet and the echo of gunpowder smoke in the air. He's the one last blow that ends a fight, and he's the silence afterwards, the graveyard dirt, the steady arms. He's beta and second, the order. The law.

Victoria is perfume and cooking meat over the faint smell of old blood. She's the castle walls and the barbed wire and the gilded gate, the blooming wall of razor-thorned roses, cashmere comfort over marble. She’s hearth and warmth. She’s solid ice.

Kate is the knife.

Kate is lightning. Kate is a flash of gold and a flash of tooth, the fire that rages in one instant and disappears in the next, the slice of a cruel-sharp claw through skin, laughter and a silver bullet, but most of all, Kate is the knife. She’s the weapon.

Kate is the weapon, and Gerard wields her with skill, just as he uses Chris to set his order and Victoria to keep his castle. They will go anywhere for him, do anything. They are his. Their lives are his, to give or to take. He’s the Alpha. That’s what it means, to an Argent, to be an Alpha, to have an Alpha. This is what it is to be _pack_.

Allison is the pup. She’s necessary, too, there has to _be_ a pup, a future, to make any of it hold together at all. Allison is half-shifted running through a hundred different forests in the gray morning dawn light, a soft hand whose claws haven’t come all the way in, the raw untrained new cub, half-grown and just coming into her own. She’s the promise of new babies, someday, in the future, to keep the pack on, and on, just as they’ve been for hundreds of years, just as they always will be. Wolf under the moon, and world without end.

The other betas come and go. They’re not Argents. Argents drench the earth in their enemies’ blood, and live forever.

 

Allison Argent is 17 years old. She’s lived in 23 different states, and moved 39 times. Her ambition is to someday take the pack to Hawaii. The terrain there isn’t what they’re used to, and the isolated islands could be a problem, and she knows perfectly well that planes are dangerous, too easy to predict. Driving is better. Still, it would be nice to see someday. Pop culture says it’s pretty there.

This is her sixth high school in three years. The winter before last was bad, after they tangled with that pair of hunters in Utah. They lost all three of their spare betas and killed both of the hunters, but Grandpa kept the whole pack moving almost constantly until the start of April. Allison had enrolled as a freshman again, for the rest of that school year. She’d rather be a little too old than obviously lost. Of course, that was in Minnesota, and their Freshman year curriculum was completely different than Oklahoma or Montana or Utah had been, but whatever. It’s not like Allison is ever going to need to have read _Romeo and Juliet_ six different times, anyway. If it were that important, Kate would have gotten her a copy.

Allison doesn’t go to school to _learn_. Her mother’s contacts will fake her grades and transcripts if she eventually needs them, anyway. She goes to fulfill her duty to the pack. She goes because she has a job to do. Grandfather never said she was supposed to _like_ it.

It’s hard to keep your finger on the pulse of every new town, when there’s a new town every six or seven months. Allison’s the one with the most obvious reason to interact with the humans around them, so Allison goes to school. It keeps suspicion down, and it lets her make daily reports to her grandfather, about the mood and the tenor of the town, wherever they are. She’s going to Beacon Hills High. She figures it’ll be just like any of the others.

Allison spends more time around humans than anyone else in her family, but that doesn’t mean she likes them any better. Humans are crueler than werewolves. Wolves only hunt their God-given prey, just like her grandfather always says. Wolves have claws and fangs and bloodlust for a reason. Humans don’t have any of that, but they cause pain just for the hell of it anyway.

Since she was six, Allison has been to 25 schools in 18 states, in 24 different towns. She’s been the Strange New Kid every single time. They’d say the same things about any one of their own who came along, any human. Allison’s just always been able to hear them.

So they smile to her face and then call her a slut or a whore or a princess or a prude, they call her a weirdo and a freak, they call her a bitch. They make bets about how long it will take them to get into the new girl’s pants, to humiliate her in front of the school for fun, to teach her her _place_.

Well, Allison calls them prey.

 

The town sheriff has a kid, here in Beacon Hills, and his kid’s a sophomore, so Allison will be a sophomore. She was a senior in Los Alamos, faking her way through remedial algebra and AP English. She’ll be able to pass for whatever age she has to for at least the next three or four years.

Chris will venture out around town, the young businessman trying to provide for his family, talking about internet investments and nothing much at all. Kate will venture out around town seeking out trouble in whatever stray corners and dive bars she can find it in. Victoria will tend to the fort, see to their perimeter, keep them comfortable (keep them _safe_ ). The Alpha...he bides his own time. He’ll reveal his own plan in the end. The rest of them will just have to wait.

It’s a good house, with its big back woods and the hidden dungeons beneath. Decades of werewolves must have screamed down there in the Hale cells. Kate’s not the only one looking forward to trying them out from the other side.

Los Alamos was too quiet, on the whole. Chris likes any town where their lives aren’t in danger, but Kate’s been getting restless, and the Alpha’s been subtly flexing his claws at the dinner table for some time now. Beacon Hills should be a good stop for the pack as a whole, which means it will be a good stop for all of them.

The Hale family’s grown quieter and quieter over the past decade or two, flaking away hunter by hunter and bit by bit. It will be interesting to see if their last surviving remnants still know how to put up a fight.

 

Laura and Derek Hale are professionals.

They’re hunters, from a family of hunters. They could load a shotgun by the time they could walk. They learned the kinds of wolfsbane with their ABC’s. They’re Hales. The name still means something, somewhere.

They hunted with their parents until Derek was 15 and Laura was just about to give it all up for college, and then they hunted together until Derek was old enough to live out on his own. Laura never did get to college. This is what they do.

They’re professionals; Derek can track a werewolf through a dense forest on a moonless night, and Laura could list every single reason that’s a terrible idea, then make a plan to survive it. It’s awkward, when they meet each other in Sacramento, have to organize who’s getting the rental car and where they’re going to stay once they reach Beacon Hills. It’s been three and a half years since they’ve watched each others’ backs in the middle of a fight, and they’ve forgotten the instinct of moving when the other jumps. But they’ve trained for this. They know this. Derek works with new and different hunters nearly every other job, and he hasn’t gotten one of them killed yet. Laura does the same. They know how to adapt.

By the time they drive the hour and a half into Beacon Hills, they’re picking holes in each others’ plans like old times. By the end of the first week sharing a room in the shabby, rent-by-the-week motel, they’re moving around each other in synchronized silence, predicting moves, slipping into a new place. Derek’s rougher now, more abrupt, more final about his plans and his blows; Laura’s more willing to trust in lore than she used to be. They’re not right back where they used to be, but they have a new pattern, and it doesn’t chafe.

So it’s not because they’re rusty, or failing to communicate, that it all goes wrong. It’s not because they aren’t _good_.

Gerard Argent is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title from 'Runs In The Family' by the Dresden Dolls. Chapter title taken from 'Harvest Moon', by Blue Oyster Cult.


	2. Chapter 1: Put a bullet in the barrel, take the safety off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which wolves and hunters find themselves in Beacon Hills, not for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Warnings are still attached to the prologue; warnings specific to this chapter can be found in the end notes.
> 
> Chapter title from 'A Masters In Reverse Psychology', from Murder By Death.
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com)

They knew the forest preserve would be dangerous at night, but Laura had at least expected to have the time to pull her bow.

Laura’s been in a fight to the death at least a dozen times. There are things you can do when a werewolf gets in that close, ways to struggle, to duck the claws. There’s a knife at her belt whose blade is solid silver, coated in a paste of wolfsbane. She keeps mountain ash in her pocket and a silver coin in the heel of each shoe, because she trusts the old lore, and she’ll take whatever keeps her alive.

They’re only just trying to see the lay of the land, for all they’re armed to the teeth, moving as silently as they can between dead leaves and old trees. They aren’t looking for a fight. And she thought they’d be ready for one anyway, but she hadn’t expected--

A flash of fur, there, through the tree trunks, and Derek by her side with the shotgun, turning one way while Laura whirls the other, hand already on her crossbow, and Derek fires off into the trees...

A mocking howl, there, over to the right, Laura spins and Derek swears as he loads another shell, not fast enough, and the sound of skittering and crunching leaves in the dark to the left...

Laura sees glinting eyes and fires right for them, doesn’t miss her aim but the eyes blink out the moment the bolt leaves the bow, and there’s Derek behind her, scanning the trees, they pull apart in their little clearing to see better...

A growl, a flash, a low dark shape out of the corner of Laura’s eye, barreling right for Derek, and she turns as he does, too slow...

Out of nowhere, the sudden, juddering impact of two hundred pounds impacting with her back, sending her to her knees, raking hot pain up her right hip and then suddenly gone...

Derek’s shotgun echoing loudly, once more in the darkness, and then silence.

He reaches down with one arm to help her up, and she fumbles another bolt into her crossbow. They stand there, back pressed against back, as the forest goes quiet and then slowly starts to rustle again, bit by bit, raccoons and owls and bats. They wouldn’t come near, if a werewolf were around. Laura can feel Derek relaxing behind her. Her hip feels as though it’s on fire.

“Let’s go,” she says finally. Derek has to catch her arm on her second step, when she sways and almost falls. He has to help her all the way back to the car.

She balls her jacket up behind her so she doesn’t bleed on the seat, and ignores the pain for the drive back. Derek can stitch her up back at the apartment.

The throbbing in her hip’s settled into a low ache by the time they get back, and lock up the car, and get up into the cheap and dirty little one-bedroom they’re calling home, and Laura can pull her shirt up over her head for Derek to get a good look.

They’ve been trained since they were born for this, so Laura knows how to listen, automatically, to everybody’s breathing in a room. She notices when Derek’s stops.

“Laura,” he says, tone already halfway to wrecked, and she knows. He doesn’t have to say any more.

“Well, fuck,” Laura says, a little lightness in her voice, and her chin drops down to her chest, and she tries not to cry.

“Maybe it wasn’t--”

“I know an alpha when I’m bit by one, Derek,” she says. She doesn’t bother to snap.

“We have two and a half weeks until the moon,” says Derek, and Laura lifts her shoulders in acknowledgement.

“Okay,” she says. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to try and get ahold of Uncle Peter. There’s some paperwork to deal with first, some people I want to call.”

“God, Laura--”

“Don’t you dare, Derek,” Laura says, and if she snaps this time, well, so be it. He’s not the one who’s going to spend the next two weeks planning out how to die.

 

Being a hunter means protecting people. That’s what it is. That’s the whole heart and soul of everything about it.

It means protecting them, even from yourself.

 

Laura sends Derek out on a lot of errands that week. It's not like he wants to sit in the apartment while she and Uncle Peter email about paperwork and finances, while Laura spends four hours on the phone with some woman in Dallas who Derek's never met. She might be Laura's lover. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to.

She won't leave Beacon Hills without Derek, and it's not about taking him away from the hunt. She needs him to take care of things, if she can't. She sprouted claws while she was snapping at him yesterday. Laura doesn't trust herself alone.

He has a bullet for her, if it comes to that, but Derek doesn't think it will. Half the point of these errands is to establish a pattern of behavior, so it will be easy to say Derek was nowhere nearby. Laura's brave, and she's a good sister. She'll deal with things herself, if only to keep from implicating Derek in her murder.

Derek goes out and squirrels away their arsenal as best as he can, makes himself conspicuous at the library and the Beacon Hills historical society. Hales built this town from the ground up. It’s as good a reason as any to be here.

He never asks, when he leaves in the morning, if she’ll still be alive when he comes back that afternoon. Part of plausible deniability is a good show of fake surprise.

Derek doesn’t ask. He runs errands, he looks over old records at the historical society. He shops. He has two grocery bags and a gallon of milk in his hands, when he swings open the apartment door and gets punched in the face by the coppery stench of blood.

The gallon of milk, burst open and glugging all over the threshhold where it fell, makes a good fucking _show_.

 

The police try to drape a blanket around Derek shoulders, for all that it’s almost sixty degrees out, and turn him, subtly, so he’s facing away when the paramedics wheel her out. He doesn’t fight them. He saw enough of Laura’s body to make sure she was really dead before the police arrived.

At the station, somebody hands him a steaming cup of coffee, and Derek wonders blankly if he looks like he’s cold. Laura was always better at this part of the job, the comforting-the-bereaved-while-looking-for-intel.

The conversation in the sheriff’s office is quick, to the point. Derek keeps it well on track.

“What brought you and your sister to Beacon Hills?”

“Laura called me. We grew up around here, when we weren’t moving. She said she wanted to see it again.”

“And that didn’t strike you as odd, at all? Out of character for her?”

“We don’t see each other much.” The sheriff’s eyes go soft around the corners, which would’ve been the point, if the little slip of the tongue had actually been intentional. “Didn’t,” Derek says. “Our parents liked to travel a lot. We caught the bug from them. Wanting to come back here seemed unusual, but Laura said she’d been having a hard time lately, and I hadn’t seen her enough to know...” Derek trails off suggestively, and the sheriff nods.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how it can be to lose family. Is there someone we can call, somewhere?” Derek shrugs. Laura made all the important calls herself. If there isn’t a big funeral, nobody has to come pretend to be surprised.

“Our uncle Peter,” he says. “They were close. He’s in Connecticut, though.”

Laura and Peter hadn’t been close so much as they held each other in a wary, respectful mutual understanding. The whole time Derek had been living with Laura after their parents died, Peter had been the one she’d call when she needed advice, but Derek never got the impression that she entirely trusted him.

Still, Peter is Peter, and there’s nobody else left on Earth who Derek would call to this town right now. “I’m not sure how long it will take him to get here,” Derek adds. “Do you know, how long until they release her...the body?”

The sheriff sighs, glances down at his notes, takes some of the force of that sympathy off for a second. “Well, we’ve got the note she left, and the emails on her laptop. It all seems pretty straightforward. They’ll have to check a few things, pretty standard, so we can get down all the right forms, but she should be released within the next day or two. Do you have any idea where you want her sent?”

“Here,” Derek says immediately. They hadn’t planned this part of the cover story out, exactly, but it fits. “There’s a whole corner of the graveyard here full of Hales. It’s probably why she wanted to come to...”

It’s supposed to be a _show_ of surprise and grief. Derek stops talking.

“Okay,” says the sheriff. “Well, Marcie at the front desk can get you started on some of the paperwork you need, and she ought to be able to help you find any phone numbers. Do you have someplace to stay?”

“I can get a hotel,” Derek says, flashing suddenly on his toothbrush and comb, his hair gel, sitting there in the bathroom where the crimson water splashed out and stained the grubby bath mat. He wonders if anybody thought to drain the tub. “I might be looking for something more permanent, though.”

“Oh?” the sheriff asks, and Derek forces himself to shrug again.

“There’s nowhere else I have to go,” he says. “Laura...she came here to die,” and the words are all backwards, Derek _brought_ her here, to die, but the sheriff doesn’t need to know that. “This used to be our home.” Derek doesn’t know what other words he can use for this, that won’t be instantly obvious as lies.

The sheriff just nods. “I understand,” he says. “Tell Marcie I said to give you the number of the landlord of the complex over on Green Street, too. They’re a little small but rent’s not bad, and the area’s safe.”

When the conversation’s over, when Derek stands up to go, the sheriff surprises him at the door with a hand, warm and heavy on his shoulder.

“You’re going to be okay, son,” he says. “It’s not a bad thing that you’re looking at your priorities right now, just promise me you’ll give yourself some time before you make any solid decisions. Grief can do funny things to your head.”

“I will,” Derek says.

He means it, or close enough. He can’t go making his plans too quickly or he’ll never survive long enough to see them through. The only decisions left are the planning bits.

The big picture, the goal, isn’t a decision at all. It’s a fact. The Argents came here, and declared war, and killed Laura.

Derek’s going to kill them all. Everything else is just details.

 

“So hey,” Stiles says, dropping his books down on the lunch table with a thud that makes Allison wince. “Guess what _I_ found out from my dad last night?”

“Something else you weren’t supposed to overhear?” Scott guesses with a knowing grin.

“Uh, _yeah_ , and you’re going to be glad I did,” Stiles counters back, and Allison watches and listens.

Her number one job, the first week at any new school, is to make a list: to identify as best as possible which students will give her the best insight on the goings-on of the town as a whole. Sometimes her dad has target suggestions for her, but they don’t always pan out. She spent three and a half months sitting behind a girl in math class whose parents had been hunters practically since they were born. By the end of the year, the girl didn’t even know that werewolves _existed_ , let alone that Allison was one, and her most interesting hobby was felting hats.

Stiles Stilinski, on the other hand, is a gold mine. Allison has a direct line right into the town sheriff’s private phone calls, and all she has to do to keep it is be cheerful, and polite, and keep smiling _just enough_ at Scott.

It’s harder to smile at Scott than it usually is, with boys. She knows how to be shy and flirty, but Scott keeps saying these things, and Allison’s lips don’t want to stop smiling. She has to be careful there. She isn’t used to this.

Scott smiles at her, sideways, from under the fringe of his hair, and Allison’s stomach tingles, and the moon is full tomorrow night but it’s not like the moon. It’s not like the moon at all.

“So what’s the big news?” she asks Stiles. Her family hasn’t mentioned anything since last Saturday, when that hunter finally died. It’s been most of a week since then.

“So you guys know that suicide victim, over at the Beacon Lodge?” Stiles says, leaning in towards them, across the table. “I heard my dad on the phone last night. Turns out, she’s a _Hale_.”

“Should you be listening to your dad’s phone calls like that?” Allison asks, pursing her lips in an approximation of concern.

“There was a suicide victim?” Scott asks. Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically.

“I need new friends,” he says. “ _Yes,_ there was a suicide last weekend, and it was the closest thing to a violent death this town’s seen since that guy fell off the ladder taking down his Christmas lights and electrocuted himself in his pool.” For a split second, Allison is oddly reminded of her aunt Kate. She hasn’t met many people that get so enthusiastic about strangers’ deaths. Of course, Kate’s usually caused the ones she goes on about. “Jeeze, come on now. I know this isn’t exactly New York City here, but we work with what we’ve got.”

“Okay, so she was a Hale,” Scott says. “So? There’s probably lots of Hales.” Allison curls her toes inside her shoes, tense, keeps the rest of her body as calm as her father’s always taught her. Stiles is already shaking his head.

“Nah, it’s definitely them,” he says. “Dad was saying something about her brother sticking around town to research the _family history_. We’ve got ourselves a bona fide Hale in town, complete with major drama.” He’s practically vibrating with glee.

“I don’t get it,” Allison says, and for once her ‘new girl’ confusion isn’t entirely feigned. She knows why her grandfather cares about the Hales, but who knows what they mean to the local humans. “Who are the Hales?”

Stiles glances at Scott, who just shrugs. If anything, this eyeroll is even more dramatic. “Hale,” says Stiles. “As in, Hale Avenue? Hale Memorial Library? The _Hale mansion_ , where your girlfriend _lives_ now?”

“We’re not--” Allison starts, on cue, and winces when she realizes that Scott is in perfect unison with her. They share a sheepish look.

If this keeps up, Allison is going to have to actually date Scott, and she doesn’t like how much she likes the idea of that. She doesn’t want to kill him. She thinks it might be nice to kiss him without fangs.

When Scott and Stiles go around the corner, into the boys’ locker room, down the other side of the hall where they think Allison can’t hear them, Scott says he _likes_ her. He doesn’t want to bang her. He isn’t making bets about her. Stiles pushes, and Scott just says that he _likes_ her.

Allison doesn’t know what to do with that.

“The Hales basically founded this town,” Stiles is explaining across the lunch table. “That’s why there are like _six different things_ named after them here, Scott, and seriously, how was _I_ the one paying attention during Local History Month in fifth grade? Anyway, they used to live out at the old mansion before you guys bought it, but it’s been empty since, like, before we were born. An actual Hale back in town is like a local celebrity.”

“Do you think he’d want to see the house?” Allison asks, trying to think what her family’s said about the other hunter. _Hale_ , yeah, everything in this town is about the Hales, but Allison doesn’t remember a first name. She’s not sure she even knew the two hunters were sister and brother, before just now.

“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugs. “Maybe? Dad said he’s renting over at that place on Green Street, so he’s not exactly living the high life, if you know what I mean. Maybe he’s after a piece of his family’s former glory.”

“Maybe _you’ve_ been watching soap operas on Netflix again,” Scott says, and Stiles raises his hands.

“Hey, Netflix makes the suggestions, I am powerless to resist,” he says, and Allison thinks, _Green Street_. Grandfather will like this.

 

_You’ve reached the cell phone of Peter Hale, and I am truly regretful to have missed you. If this is urgent, you should already have my email address, and if you don’t, then it can’t possibly be urgent. Leave a message at the tone and I will do my best to get back to you._

***BEEP***

“Uncle Peter. I know you emailed with Laura before she died. Call my cell phone. You know the number.”

***BEEP***

“Uncle Peter, it’s Derek. I’m still in Beacon Hills. We had Laura’s memorial ceremony. It was...empty. There wasn’t much of a ceremony, not that there was much point, with you still god-knows-where on the other side of the-- I made sure she was cremated. We don’t have to worry. I need you to call me to talk about what’s next.”

***BEEP***

“Peter, I know you’re getting these messages, wherever you are. Call me back, or for once in your life, pick up a fucking phone when it rings for somebody other than Laura, because she’s never calling you again.”

***BEEP***

“I’m sorry. I need your help. There are five of them, and you’re the only one I can ask. They killed Laura. Please.”

 

He won’t call back. Derek knows his uncle well enough by now to realize that Peter does what he wants for reasons entirely of his own, and no amount of pleading on _this_ end will change his mind. He’s alone.

That doesn’t make him helpless. Daylight reconnaissance is riskier than night patrols for plenty of reasons, most of them having to do with civilians, but the Argents need to avoid detection just as much as Derek does. He can’t get all the way up to the house, but he can get around it. He hasn’t seen these woods in six years. They haven’t changed all that much.

Derek has never been the _friendly_ type, and he doesn’t particularly want to speak to anybody, right now, but there are some drawbacks to being a known Hale in Beacon Hills, and notoriety is one of them. It’s difficult to go places unnoticed.

Usually, when Derek needs to do recon within a town or a city, he’s with someone who can actually carry on a conversation full of smalltalk with unsuspecting passers-by. Laura was good at that. Peter is _fantastic_ at it, yet one of the many reasons that Peter would be invaluable right now. Laura would know how to turn that notoriety into a tool.

The best Derek can do is smile at the old woman at the front desk of the Beacon Hills Historical Society, and ask about the people who bought the old Hale mansion. Rosemary Sutter remembers Derek’s late great-grandparents with fondness, not to mention Grandpa Michael, and she’s more than happy to ramble on at the slightest provocation. She tends to get lost on a tangent about the Good Old Days more often than not, but if Derek sits there and lets his eyes glaze over a little there are usually a few useful tidbits about the Argents in there, somewhere.

If he _really digs_.

God, Derek hates people.

 

“I thought you said these Hales were going to be _fun_ ,” Kate says, stretching lazily and sauntering over to the living room window. Her father’s newspaper rustles behind her.

“Patience, Katie,” he says. “The Hales may be broken, but they’re far from friendless. We’ve just given the boy all the more reason to be desperate, now we have to wait and see what he comes up with. There’s no point to a chess game if you flip the board over after the third move.”

“Chess is your game, Dad,” Kate says. “You know I prefer mine a little...quicker.”

He chuckles warmly, still behind his paper. “We’ll stir the pot soon,” he says. “Circle the herd, pick a first victim, if you’re so impatient. Somebody that no one but the hunter will miss.”

“Have I ever let you down?” Kate asks. It’s rhetorical, and her father knows it; if she’d let him down, she wouldn’t be asking about it now.

It’s raining outside, a light drizzle, and the glass is cool under Kate’s palm. She drums the tips of her claws against it, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.

She likes this house. She could get to like Beacon Hills, given the right...incentive.

 

“Can I come?” Allison asks, when Kate mentions she’s going on a hunt.

“Well sure, sweetie, if your dad and the Alpha say it’s okay,” Kate says, raising a glass of water like a toast.

“Not on a school night,” says Chris, and that’s the end of that. Grandpa overrules Allison’s dad sometimes, but most of the time he doesn’t bother.

Allison’s not allowed to go out, yet, when there’s an actual kill to be made, not unless Grandpa is going and he brings her himself. Not yet. It’s too dangerous, if the authorities get involved. Still, Kate says she’s only going out stalking tonight, and Allison wanted an excuse to spend time with her, more or less alone.

Allison’s too confused lately. Running with Kate always makes everything clear again.

“I’ll bring you back something special,” Kate promises with a wink, and Allison’s mom says, “More potatoes, anyone?” and that’s the end of that.

Kate swings by Allison’s bedroom on her way out that night. The moon’s a quarter down from full in the sky, big enough to make Allison shiver, but nothing like the thrill of last weekend. They all ran last Friday night, the whole pack together, and the paws Allison doesn’t have itch, remembering it.

Since last weekend, Scott has looked over at her on average of seventeen times every five minutes and smiled at her approximately three hundred and fifty times a day. They only have four classes together. Allison’s smiled back every single time.

“Okay, sweetie, what’s up?” Kate asks, closing Allison’s bedroom door behind her. “Tell Auntie Kate what your problems are.”

“No problems,” Allison says immediately. Kate raises her eyebrows, and Allison closes her geometry book and sighs.

“You can’t tell Mom or Dad,” she says. She can’t ban Kate from repeating any of this to Grandfather, but she can hope.

“Honey, when have I _ever_ told Chris anything he didn’t absolutely need to know?” Kate asks. It’s true. Allison’s dad is second in the pack, and even her mom outranks Kate sometimes, technically, depending on the situation--but when she’s not taking a direct order, Kate’s never really seemed to care about any authority besides the Alpha. Allison’s always been sort of jealous of that. She doesn’t know how Kate gets away with it, but she’s always sort of wanted to.

“I’m having trouble at school,” Allison admits, looking down at the brightly-colored patterns on the cover of her textbook. Kate makes a sympathetic sort of sound, sits down on the foot of Allison’s bed.

“The classes?” she asks. “Because you know, nobody cares if you fail a math class or two. Next town we get to, nobody will ever have to know.”

“No, I’m doing fine in math,” Allison says. She’s actually pulling down an A, for the first time in a while; four months of pre-calc makes basic geometry seem easy. “The chemistry teacher’s awful, he keeps giving Scott a hard time, but it’s not...that.”

“ _Scott_ , huh?” Kate asks, so knowing that Allison’s startled into looking up. “So let me see, what’s this _Scott_ like?”

“He’s...” Allison starts.

“So ruggedly handsome you can barely keep your hands off of him?” Kate fills in helpfully. “Such an enormous waste of air that it’s all you can do not to tear his throat out in the middle of the halls? Tall, short, impossible to reason with, clinically insane? Give me something to work with here.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Allison finishes helplessly, and hates herself for it. She looks back down at her textbook. She can’t believe she’s getting like this over a _human_.

“Oh, _sweetie_ ,” Kate clucks, and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Allison’s ear. “You know it’s okay if you _like_ them sometimes, right? Nobody’s going to get mad at you for that.”

“He’s not important,” Allison says.

“Well sure, but that’s no reason not to enjoy yourself,” says Kate. “They may be human, but they’re still fun. Even prey have good ideas sometimes.”

“He _likes_ me,” Allison says. And she’s too much of herself around him, which means what he likes is actually _her_. At least, she wants him to like her. She’s not supposed to _care_ like this.

“Well, who wouldn’t like you?” asks Kate. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you bring him by on Saturday, hmmm? We can make everyone promise to be on their best behavior.”

“The first lacrosse game is this Saturday,” Allison says. “I promised I’d go, Scott and Stiles are both on the team, even though they’re usually on the bench, and Lydia said everyone would be there...” Lydia Martin makes Allison very cautious, because anybody who’s that smart and plays that stupid is dangerous to know, but she’s a great source of information.

“Sounds great,” Kate tells her. “Tell you what, I’ll go with you. You can introduce me, and then we’ll invite your boy back with us for dinner. Okay?”

“Are you sure...” Allison starts, finally looking up. Kate looks, sounds, _smells_ completely sincere, no artifice at all. “Kate, I really like him.”

“Yeah, I got that, baby,” Kate says. “It’s okay, I promise. You’ve got to give him a try. If it doesn’t go anywhere, so be it, but if he fits in you know we’re always looking for extra betas. And hey, if he turns out to be a total dud, I can try to talk your dad into letting you be the one to rip his throat out.” Allison smiles, but the truth is, she doesn’t even think she _wants_ to rip Scott’s throat out. Even if he doesn’t impress her family.

“This is why we have the bite, sweetie,” says Kate soothingly. “Humans are humans, but we can always make them _better_ if we want to. Just look at your mom.”

“Yeah,” Allison admits. She can’t picture Scott with claws any better than she can picture her mother without them, but maybe. Maybe, just for a little while, if Kate says it’s okay...

“So,” Kate says, and unfolds herself from the foot of Allison’s bed. “About this chemistry teacher of yours.”

It takes Allison a second to catch up; a moment later, her face lights up. “Really?” she asks. “He’s _awful_. He’s always picking on Scott. Stiles, too.”

“Wedding ring?” Kate asks, and Allison shakes her head.

“He’s young, too, not much older than you,” she says. “ _Nobody_ would miss him. _Please_?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kate promises. “No guarantees, but if Beacon Hills is going to start seeing a wash of random freak mountain lion attacks, they might as well be well-deserved mountain lion attacks.”

“Thank you,” Allison says, and bounces up to give Kate a hug. It’s a little bit in return for Kate offering to kill Harris, but mostly not. Kate’ll know. Kate always knows what Allison really means.

 

It’s Lydia’s fault. Jackson will maintain this fact until the end of time. It is _all Lydia’s fault_.

Lydia’s the one who gets all grumpy and mopey because the new girl is a weirdo who would rather hang with McCall and Stilinski than talk to her. Lydia’s the one who spends the first game of the lacrosse season pouting in the stands one bleacher above Allison and some hot older blonde lady instead of cheering Jackson on, and she’s the one who spends the week after that glaring daggers at everybody _other_ than Allison Argent. Lydia’s the one who likes to make herself feel better by making Jackson do random shit just because he hopes she’ll put out at the end of it. 

So now? Well, _now,_ Jackson is spending his free Saturday afternoon having a fucking picnic. In January. _Yes_ , it’s California, but it’s _not fucking LA, Lydia_. It’s fifty fucking degrees out.

And okay, maybe he was, _possibly_ , enjoying himself a little, since Lydia let him keep his coat on and decided to snuggle up against his chest to keep warm. She brought most of the food, thank god, probably because she knew if she left it up to Jackson they’d end up with a box of takeout pizza, and Lydia went to Whole Foods and got little finger foods and bacon-wrapped dates. Lydia only likes _classy_ booze, but at least there’s champagne. _Was_ champagne.

That was before the quiet, late afternoon air of the otherwise _totally empty_ corner of the park was split by the shouts for help. And the snarls. And the incoherent screams.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jackson says, ready to dump Lydia out of his lap if she doesn’t scramble up on her own. She does, but she shoots him with her patented _what an idiot_ glare. Great. Jackson had been _planning_ on some slightly-kinky outdoor sex on the picnic blanket later, but apparently that’s not happening for _two_ reasons, now.

“Call for help,” Lydia hisses. “Get your cell phone, call the police.”

“Why are you whispering?” Jackson snaps back. Quietly. While pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

“So whatever it is doesn’t _hear us,_ ” Lydia bites out, and only Lydia fucking Martin could get that much annoyance into a whisper.

“Fuck this,” Jackson decides, still in a half-whisper. The screams have stopped. There’s a branch lying under a tree over there that’s about the same length as a lacrosse stick. “I’m going to see what’s going on.”

“Jackson!” she hisses from behind him, but Jackson ignores her. He just spent an hour sitting on a blanket with a woven straw picnic basket, hearing about spring fashions, all the weaknesses in the lacrosse team’s lineup this year, and Allison Argent. If he doesn’t do something to reclaim his pride, or at least his balls, he’s going to end up breaking something.

He’s quiet, creeping forward between the trees. He’s _quiet_. No person should have heard him, but the blonde _thing_ bent over the crumpled body on the ground definitely isn’t shaped like any mountain lion.

It’s _fast._ It’s so fast, and Jackson strikes out with the branch with all his perfectly-honed reflexes, but the next moment the whole branch is torn from his hands. It’s all a whirl of superhuman motion, too fast to follow, and then something hits Jackson in the middle of the back, sends him sprawling flat on his face.

Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, listening to the panting of his breath. “Please,” he begs. Whatever it was, it _looked_ person-shaped. “You can’t do this.”

Something tickles down the back of his head, combing through his hair. Jackson flinches. Instantly, whatever it is--claws, oh god--gash into the back of his neck, gouging holes and taking away any breath he might have had, even to scream.

A second later, the _thing_ , whatever-it-is, is gone, racing through the undergrowth, back towards the park, towards Lydia. Jackson can’t get up. There’s something wrong with his arms and legs.

This is Lydia’s fault. All of it.

 

The tragic, mauling death of Adrian Harris, high school chemistry teacher, known by many, (mourned by few) occupies the populace of Beacon Hills like nothing else straight through the first weeks of February. Stiles is basically euphoric. Scott is torn between feeling kind of freaked out, and sort of like he should at least care a _little_ , and being really glad that their chemistry sub doesn’t seem to get off on public humiliation quite the same way.

He’s got other things to worry about. He’s dating Allison now...at least, Scott _thinks_ this is dating? He’s had dinner over at her house like six times, although since Stiles actually met the Argents and realized how weird they kind of are, he’s sort of invited himself along for four of the past five. They haven’t really gone _out_ , really, but Allison kissed him last week, on her front doorstep, and she let Scott kiss her this morning before classes. So Scott is pretty sure that means they’re dating? Maybe?

He’s got to figure it out, because Allison is awesome, and because Stiles is right, her family seriously is _weird_ , and not just the part where Scott’s kind of afraid of her grandfather. _Allison_ seems kind of afraid of her grandfather, and that’s...not good. Probably. Scott doesn’t know, he’s never _dated_ anybody before, he’s not sure how a girl’s parents are supposed to act! Maybe glaring like Allison’s dad’s been doing is normal?

He’s just really glad that Allison seems cool with Stiles hanging out, too, when they go over to her house. It’s all huge and impressive, and Stiles has his whole _Beacon Hills history_ thing going on, so he’s really into it, and it makes Scott feel like he’s got actual backup. Just in case one of Allison’s family members decides they actually want to stick that carving knife into Allison’s boyfriend, instead of just slicing the roast all...suggestively.

At least Allison’s aunt seems nice. Allison says they’re really close, so Scott was worried, but Kate smiles at him every time he sees her. At least that’s _somebody_ on his side.

 

Derek knows a werewolf attack when he reads about one in the paper, but there are forms to be followed, and honestly, he needs as much intelligence as he can get. There might not be much of it to find in Jackson Whittemore, but Derek at least has to try.

“It was a mountain lion,” Jackson says mulishly, and Derek reminds himself that if he beats the kid’s head against the roof of his own car, Derek’s probably not going to learn anything. Not that it would make much of a difference.

“It wasn’t,” Derek says. “It didn’t look like a mountain lion, and I know you know that. What’s wrong with your neck?” he asks sharply, suddenly, because Jackson’s just reached up to rub the back of his neck for the third time since Derek found him at the gas station, and Derek has a sinking feeling about it.

“Nothing,” Jackson says, but Derek ignores him, steps forward to grab the kid by one shoulder and the hair on the back of his head. Jackson’s wiry, but he’s only human, and Derek’s used to much stronger prey; Derek yanks his head forward without much trouble. There are four perfectly-spaced claw marks in the back of Jackson’s neck, as red and new as the day the werewolf put them there.

“It marked you,” Derek says. “Have you been having nightmares?”

Werewolf scratches are bad news. Anything having to do with werewolves is bad news. If Derek had someone with him who knew the lore better, he might have some scale for just how bad these marks are, but Derek knows enough to know that scratches to the back of the neck make older, experienced hunters jumpy. Marks that refuse to heal are almost as bad as ones that heal much too quickly.

“Of course I have, I was mauled by a mountain lion,” Jackson says, and jerks away. Derek lets him go. “Freak.”

There’s fear behind the anger, Derek decides. There has to be. That’s why a civilian would get so angry over a werewolf attack, right? Fear?

“You’re terrified,” Derek tries, sounding absolutely certain. “The thing that attacked you wasn’t just a hundred times stronger and faster than you are, it was also more vicious than anything you’ve ever met in your life. You’re terrified because it beat you so easily, and you can’t figure out why it let you live when someone else died. You know it’s something unnatural. Something that shouldn’t exist. Something wrong.”

“Yeah, what do you know about it,” Jackson mutters rudely, shouldering past Derek towards his own car door.

“I know how to kill them,” says Derek, and Jackson stops dead in his tracks.

 

 

“I like Scott,” Kate says, and Victoria rolls her eyes.

“He’s useless,” she says. “He’s weak. He’s a teenage bag of hormones and meat, Allison can do better.”

“He makes her happy,” says Kate. “I like seeing her happy. Don’t you?”

Kate’s lounging against the breakfront in the kitchen, arms folded, casual as anything; Victoria is seated at the head of the table, polishing silver. Chris knows better than to get in between them. He has a chair on the other side of the table, well out of the line of fire.

Chris’s father is, theoretically, over at the kitchen island preparing some kind of beef stew, but nobody here would dare for a second think that means he isn’t following the whole conversation. Nobody here is stupid. They are, after all, still alive.

“I see no reason why Allison can’t keep the boy, for now,” Father puts in, which settles that. “Of course, should he become a problem...”

“He’ll be easy enough to lure into the woods and deal with,” Chris says. “Kate or I can take care of him if it ever becomes an issue.”

“No,” says Father, and all three of the betas tense up, just a little. It’s rarely good, when the Alpha says _no_. “No, if things go wrong, Allison will be responsible for it. He’s her pet. On the other hand, if things go right, Kate says the boy might be willing to take the bite?”

“He has asthma,” Kate says. “Allison thinks he might jump at the chance to be better. More importantly, _Allison_ wants him to have it.”

“Allison’s a child, she doesn’t know what she wants,” Victoria says, and Kate laughs, says, “Oh, honey, she hasn’t been a child in a long time, and she’s not going to play cub for much longer,” and Chris says, “Enough.”

Discussion stops, usually, when Chris says _enough_. The Alpha will tell Chris _no_ on occasion, but he does not tend to let it slide, if anybody else tries to. Order makes a pack run.

Then, too, Chris’s claws are as sharp as anyone’s. He can make his own status felt when he has to. He wouldn’t keep it, if he couldn’t do that.

“Scott will face the same evaluation and tests as any human would,” Chris says. “He has a long way to go before we offer him the bite. In the meantime, we need to talk about his friend. The sheriff’s son.”

“He’s too clever,” Victoria says. “Last week, he was asking questions about whether we had blueprints for the house. He said he was doing a history project.”

“Well, we can’t kill him,” Kate says, “unfortunately. Can we?”

“No,” Chris says, with a quick glance towards his father for confirmation. “We can’t risk the sheriff getting too involved at this stage, and if he dies, Scott becomes unstable. Allison’s too tied up in him right now. I’d rather use Stiles to keep a hold on Scott, if we can.”

“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing,” says the Alpha, “or a useful one. Allison’s said he’s a good source of information on the sheriff’s department. We just need a way to distract him from asking the wrong questions about _us_.”

“Well, I can keep an eye on him,” Kate offers easily. “I’m bored, he’s almost funny. I’ve got more of an excuse to be hanging out with Allison and her friends, anyway.”

“Keep an eye on him?” Chris asks, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, don’t worry, big brother,” Kate waves him off. “Sixteen-year-old boy like that, a little socially awkward, probably virginal, just waiting for the right woman to come along and take him under her wing? He won’t be causing any trouble. This’ll probably even be _fun_.” She smiles, as wolf as she ever gets without shifting. “Who knows, with this to distract me I might even stay out of trouble for a while.”

“Well, we can only hope,” says Victoria. Kate just grins.

 

Chris spends the week before the full moon checking over his perimeter, while Kate checks her cleavage and her claws. Derek brings Jackson Whittemore home to his one-bedroom apartment and shows him book after book, lore upon lore--and then, when that fails to impress, how to load a wolfsbane shell and how to shoot a crossbow. Jackson’s obviously turning his feelings of fear and shame and powerlessness right into a blind obsession with the hunt. Derek sharpens his knives, checks that his tasers are constantly charged, and figures that Jackson’s decisions are his own. Derek can’t worry about him. He’s got a family of werewolves to kill.

Stiles spends too much time on the internet researching the history of Beacon Hills and the Hale mansion, but shut up, it’s _interesting_. The more he reads about people like Peter Q. Hale, Jr., who actually shot a rampaging _bear_ right in the middle of town one moonlit night, or, like, his wife Samantha who was basically an incredibly badass little-known early twentieth century horror writer, the more he wishes he could track down the mysterious Hale heir who’s back in town somewhere. And okay, now that he’s seen the inside of it, the Hale mansion is _seriously cool_ , in a deeply creepy way. He’s pretty sure there are secret passages. They seem like the sort of family who’d have secret passages.

The Argents seem like the sort of family who’d appreciate secret passages and then lie about them, but Stiles is totally growing on them. Allison’s hot aunt watched a whole movie with them the other day, and Allison’s dad totally glares less when Stiles shows up at the front door than Scott’s mom does. Of course, Stiles hasn’t actually broken into Allison’s house through the window yet. Give it time.

The day of the full moon Allison goes over to Scott’s house, all alone, pushes him into the wall and into the door jamb and down into his bed, oh, _oh_ , the tingle of the coming moon compelling her _harder, faster_ , her mouth on his, oh, his palms sliding up under her shirt, fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra.

He falls asleep afterwards, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, head on her shoulder and snuffling into her collar bone like a puppy. She can barely bring herself to leave him when the sun starts to set, even though she knows her whole family’s waiting. Allison’s no virgin, but it’s never felt like _this_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: one off-screen suicide and its aftermath, multiple incidents of canon-typical violence, and some deeply unhealthy family dynamics.


	3. Chapter 2: Softly through the shadow of the evening sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people find themselves walking willingly into what they will realize far too late can only end in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, tomorrow night's chapter will be delayed until Friday morning. Chapter title from 'Lullaby', by The Cure.
> 
> Warnings specific to this chapter can be found in the end notes!
> 
>  
> 
> As always, find me [on tumblr](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com/)

It’s nearly mid-February before Stiles’ jeep blows out a tire on the long, winding road through the forest to the Argent home. Kate’s been working on him, little touches, lingering smiles, for at least two weeks, but Chris is getting impatient, so all right, time to step it up a few notches. Turns out, the old Hales actually left caltrops in the basement. It’s a little obvious for Kate’s tastes, but it’s raining hard enough that she’ll bet good money Stiles won’t go looking through the mud and wet leaves on the dirt road to see what he hit.

Allison was responsible for making sure his cell phone got lost and stayed that way for a day or two. Such a helpful niece. She’s been all over this plan since she figured out Kate was doing it to get her more time with Scott. It’s the least Kate can do, really. Allison deserves something nice for herself once in a while, and Brown Eyes certainly is _nice_. Somebody’s got to back Allison up with all the killjoys around here.

Chris and Victoria agreed to clear out for the afternoon--apparently they’re taking a married couple’s date off to San Francisco to check in with some of Victoria’s contacts about getting better ID forgeries, for the next couple of moves the pack makes--and Kate’s dad is in his study with the door closed. Allison, of course, is with Scott at the movies. That’s sort of the point.

It was only a matter of time before Stiles’ curiosity started bringing him over here when Allison wasn’t even home. Kate would rather engineer the whole thing herself, give him a reason to come by. Make sure she’s the one controlling every single reason he might have to leave.

She’s got an old book and a glass of wine, purely for aesthetics’ sake, and a fire roaring in the grate of her bedroom. That’s the thing about these old houses. So impossible to insulate in the winter. So drafty.

Kate hears the sound of sneakers on wet gravel clomping up towards the front porch long before the doorbell actually rings, but she takes her time making her way downstairs anyway. Her dad won’t get up. This is Kate’s show.

Stiles rings the bell three more times before Kate actually gets to the door; she’s actually pretty sure, by the third time, that he’s just leaning up against the button. Still, even expecting it, she can’t stifle an enormous, half-shocked grin when she opens the door. The kid must have either tripped on his way up to the house, or tried to dig his jeep out of the mud before he realized the problem, because he’s _filthy_. And since he’s only wearing a hoodie, he’s drenched and shivering. Perfect.

He’s not bad-looking underneath it all. He’s a little weedy, but there’s some muscle definition under that clinging wet fabric, and hey. If Kate wants buff teenage eye candy, she can just take a night to go stalk Jackson Whittemore, see how he’s enjoying the memories she gave him. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of variety.

“What the hell happened to you, Chatterbox?” she asks. Stiles tries ineffectively to wipe the water off his face with one sodden sleeve. He looks utterly unimpressed with the world. And Kate in her tightest jeans, too. Well, she’ll fix that.

“I got a flat,” he says. “A mile and a half down that dirt road you people call a driveway. And I couldn’t call, because I haven’t seen my cell phone since last night, and I know what you’re going to say, but _yes_ , I _did_ actually clean my room, and it wasn’t that messy in the first place, so if you could just get Allison and Scott so I can tell them I’m sorry we’re going to miss the movie, and maybe I can borrow Allison’s cell phone to call a tow truck without tracking mud all over your house, that? Would be _great_.”

“Oh sweetie, didn’t you get Allison’s message?” Kate asks, feigning concern. “Her parents went out of town, and since the road gets kind of washed out in the rain I let her borrow the SUV and head over to Scott’s place so you wouldn’t have to come up here.”

God, it’s so amusing just to watch this kid. Stiles doesn’t even bother to look surprised. He just stares at her, as one by one, every muscle in his body slumps. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says flatly.

“Fraid not,” Kate tells him. “She said she left a voicemail.”

“On my phone,” Stiles says. “On my phone, which I can’t find. Of course she did.”

“Look, sweetie, why don’t you come on inside and dry off?” Kate says. “You’re starting to look like a little drowned kitten, out there. You can borrow something to wear while we try and get a tow truck out here, sound good?”

He stares at her a second longer--cold and exhaustion seem to have taken the zip out of his reflexes, it’s a shame, she’ll have to warm him up before they get to _later_ \--then says, “Yeah, I really hope you mean that, because it’s about forty degrees out here and any concern I have for dripping on your floors is pretty much gone.”

“Good,” says Kate. “Come on inside.”

 

Stiles will never really be able to piece together just what the hell _happens_ , the rest of the afternoon. He was cold and soaked, the house was freezing, Kate said she had a fire going, he dripped all over the stairs, the pieces _clearly_ must’ve all made sense at the time, but how they all came together and led to shivering in nothing but his wet boxers and a blanket, sitting on one corner of Kate Argent’s bed...how he got from _there_ to...

“Here,” she says, offering him a wine glass to match hers. He hadn’t even noticed her pouring. “You’re still shaking, Chatterbox. It’ll help you warm up. Just don’t tell my brother.”

“Right,” Stiles says, and takes the glass, clinks it against hers when she holds it out, and probably this is a crappy idea, but...

And then ten or twenty minutes later, when she settles down on the foot of the bed next to him, laughing at something stupid he’d said, and he’s finally warm enough to let the blanket slip a little but he is in _Allison’s hot aunt’s bedroom_ , sitting next to _Allison’s hot aunt_ , who is showing way more cleavage than Stiles is used to somebody’s aunt having to show...

Allison’s aunt Kate’s hand is on Stiles’ thigh, over the way-too-thin blanket, and he has no idea how it got there, and his glass is empty, and he’s really not sure when that happened, either.

“I should probably call that tow truck,” Stiles says, and Kate reaches out to grab the half-empty bottle of wine from her side table, tops off her own glass, holds it enticingly out towards his.

“What’s your hurry?” she asks. “Come on, Civil War-era muskets versus Boer War rifles. I was listening.”

And okay, that’s it, because _nobody_ wants to hear Stiles go on about innovations in nineteenth-century weaponry that he only started researching because he went off on a tangent after learning about Peter Q. Hale, Jr. and his bear. Something is definitely going on here, and if his head weren’t already kind of funny...

“Mrs. Robinson, I think you’re trying to seduce me,” Stiles’ mouth says, without any input from his brain, and oh god, that’s it, Stiles is just going to die right here. Of embarrassment. “And I am way too young for that movie reference, which makes me think I’m probably way too young for whatever’s going on here,” he finishes, though, because he is really, really sure that _something_ is going on here. “Whatever it is that’s going on here,” he repeats, flailing one hand in an uncoordinated sort of way, to sort of encompass himself, and _her_ , sitting so close, and the fire, and the wine, and the rain, and... _everything_.

Kate just laughs. “Sweetie, how ancient do you think I am?” she asks.

“Oh, there is _no_ way to answer that question that won’t get me in trouble, is there,” Stiles says, and Kate laughs again, and somewhere in there she managed to snag his empty wine glass from his hand without him even noticing, somehow, so she’s filling it back up again, and oh boy. Stiles is probably already in trouble, isn’t he.

“When you travel as much as I do,” says Kate, “when you meet as many people as I do, and then leave them all behind that often? Well, you get to realize how true it is, when they say age is just a number. I think you’re interesting, Chatterbox. I like Civil War weaponry. You’ve got kind of a weird sense of humor on you, but I like it. Why wouldn’t I want to be here hanging out with you?” She pauses, and she looks at him, _right at_ him, and okay, no girl who’s this hot, of _any_ age, has ever looked at Stiles like that before. “Unless you don’t want to be here?”

Oh, this is all going to end so very, very badly. “No,” says Stiles. “I mean, yes! Here is good. Here is just fine.”

Here is _something_ , all right, and the fire is warm and the blanket is definitely slipping and Stiles has lost all sense of how reality actually works because this _definitely_ isn’t part of how it’s supposed to go, and...

Later, before she takes her shirt off but after the blanket falls down most of the way, there’s lips. And then there’s skin, bare skin, so much of it, and _hands_ , and okay, Scott was right, this is the best thing ever, nothing else in the world _feels_ like this. His dad would kill him, and, okay, probably also Kate, but that...sort of makes it hotter? That’s how these things are supposed to go, right?

Who the hell knows. Kate has this throaty little laugh, and a grin like she wants to eat him alive, and _miles_ of bare skin he somehow has to figure out how to navigate, and Stiles left the road map of ‘supposed to’ behind somewhere a long time ago.

 

So Jackson Whittemore is a _fucking idiot_ , and even if Derek were at risk to actually survive this, he would never be making the mistake of taking an apprentice, of any kind, _ever again_. Luckily he doesn’t forsee that being a problem, so if Jackson somehow miraculously avoids getting himself disemboweled _and_ the very real and growing danger of Derek shooting him in the head, he can run off and torment some other hunter and clan.

Derek will give him a good reference over to Anna and Leo in Nevada. He never much liked Anna Storm.

On the bright side, training Jackson gives Derek an excellent excuse to slam the kid into walls and floors and convenient pieces of furniture, which is probably more satisfying than it should be. It’s also been giving Derek a good excuse to stall.

Derek has been out into the woods during the day at least three times a week since Laura died. He’s seen the Argent girl around town, watched her and her poor sap of a human boyfriend from across the street, he’s scouted out the perimeter of the house so many times he walks it in his dreams, he _knows_ the layout. Killing one of the Argent wolves at this point would be _easy_. He could do it with a sniper rifle and hollowpoints, and a clear head shot through a window, if he really wanted to. It’s so very, very temptingly easy.

And then? Well, that’s the problem, because then, all hell would rain down. And no matter how many times Derek tries to come up with some kind of plan, he can’t see a way to kill all five of them before one of the Argents manages to kill him. Not even with Jackson’s help. If Derek dies before this is over, Jackson will probably take his precious Porche and his daddy’s credit card and flee to Mexico. Spoiled waste of training and skin.

If Derek waits long enough, and watches hard enough, he will see an opening. A plan will come to him. In the meantime, he’s running out of ways to put Jackson off about those scratches on the back of his neck.

They don’t react to wolfsbane, the boy’s been having dreams about killing people with his teeth, and Derek doesn’t actually _have_ any other ideas.

“The dreams will stop when we kill the werewolf who scratched you,” Derek says. “When you break the connection.” It’s as good a working theory as any, it probably has some backing in the lore, and if he’s wrong, well, by the time they find out, Jackson probably won’t be able to call him on it.

“And when do we get to do that?” Jackson asks between gritted teeth. Derek waits for a split second, and then sucker punches him, right in the jaw. Jackson goes down like a sack of bricks.

“When you’re not so slow you can’t even handle a human opponent,” Derek says. Jackson gapes up at him, clutching his jaw and wincing in pain, but he doesn’t ask about the schedule again that day. Progress.

 

Jackson’s jaw hurts more than the back of his neck. It’s literally the only good thing about training with Derek today.

If Derek doesn’t start offering up actual results soon, Jackson is going to kill _him_. It’s been weeks, and so far all Derek’s had to offer is cryptic bullshit and lessons in hand-to-hand that always seem to end in Jackson getting slammed against walls. The only important things Derek had to tell him, Jackson learned in the first five minutes of the first day: silver bullets are a myth, but wolfsbane will poison a werewolf instantly. There hasn’t been a whole lot of progress.

It’s almost nine when he gets home. The house is empty. His parents had some benefit thing, or a dinner party, Jackson doesn’t know. He’s got more important things to pay attention to these days than what those two get up to.

Usually, this would be a perfect night to call Lydia over for a booty call. Tonight, Jackson just wants to take a shower and ice his jaw. He’s still got chem homework, and the sub doesn’t like him nearly as much as Harris had. Fucking werewolves.

Just like it always does when Jackson thinks about _that afternoon_ , the back of his neck twinges. Jackson reaches up to rub it automatically. The scratches are still deep and open under his fingers, still sting when they’re touched. Jackson doesn’t own a single turtleneck, but if they don’t heal up soon he’s going to start having to walk around like a preppie douchebag with a popped collar. Danny’s already giving him weird looks.

He grabs a bag of ice from the freezer and heads upstairs. His bedroom window is open.

Immediately a trickle of what Jackson refuses to admit might be fear runs down his spine. It’s wary readiness. It’s totally reasonable to be wary when he knows he left the window closed and locked, and the last time his mother set foot in his room past the door, Jackson was eleven. The cleaning lady hasn’t been here since Tuesday.

_A hunter has to use all of his senses,_ Derek is always saying. _The thing you’re hunting relies on hearing, so you’d better learn to listen._ Jackson will never admit to finding anything valuable in _any_ of Derek’s lessons, but he stops still with his back safely against the doorjamb, and _listens._

The house is quiet. No creaks, no thuds, no footsteps. There’s nothing but the sound of Jackson’s own breath, too loud and too ragged in the silence. He’s just about to open his eyes when he hears the howl.

It’s _outside_ , Jackson has just enough time to think, before the fire shoots up his neck and buckles his knees to the floor. He goes down hard, tears prickling up at the corners of his squeezed-closed eyes from the pain. His whole mouth tastes like blood.

It’s a moment before he can even breathe again, let alone stand. Jackson staggers over to the window as soon as he can and peers out into the night. It’s cloudy and too dark to even see where the shadows end and the ground begins, but there are two glowing golden spots shining through the gloom, right where the neighbor’s enormous maple tree should be standing. They look like eyes.

Jackson shudders. He can’t tear his gaze away. He’s caught like a rat in front of a snake, oh god he’s going to die. Why the hell couldn’t Derek have taught him something _actually useful_ over the past couple of weeks, now he’s going to die from a werewolf right here in his own fucking bedroom where he’s supposed to be _safe_ , and...

One of the glowing eyes blinks out, slowly, then back in. A wink.

A moment later, the eyes are gone and Jackson can move again, if only to sag against his window frame. He yanks the window closed violently, then drags his blinds down to cover it. He hates werewolves. Hates them.

His neck is throbbing, and he can already feel the stabbing pain radiating out into another migraine. On the bright side, his jaw doesn’t hurt nearly as much any more. It’s the worst fucking bright side Jackson’s ever heard of.

 

There is only so much that Lydia Martin is willing to take, in life. This semester has gone above and beyond the limits of all of it, and it’s only the middle of February.

First there’s Allison Argent. Pretty, mysterious Allison Argent, who actually had Lydia fooled into thinking she wanted to be friends, for the first week or so. Allison Argent, who blows Lydia off to spend time with a couple of third-string lacrosse players, and then apologizes like she actually means it. Allison who’s lied about her past every single time Lydia’s asked her about it, and somehow thinks Lydia hasn’t noticed. Lydia’s so over it. She doesn’t want anything to do with those kinds of games, she just wants to know _why_.

Oh, and then, the attack on Mr. Harris. She’s not having nightmares about it. She’s not. Lydia took some of her mother’s valium for the stress that first week, and ever since, she’s been sleeping fine. She saw a mountain lion racing past, out of the corner of her eye and through the trees. It didn’t come after her. It didn’t look like anything other than a mountain lion. But whatever the world is coming to, that a person can’t even have a nice picnic with her boyfriend in peace, without being very nearly attacked and mauled by a _mountain lion_...

Jackson’s been distant since then. He’s blown off three out of their past four dates. She has half a mind to break up with him for a month, just to see how he likes it.

Then he shows up to school with an enormous bruise on his jaw, and Lydia just about loses it right there in the hallway.

“What is this?” she demands, gesturing.

“I was practicing lacrosse, Lydia. It’s kind of a rough sport,” he says, like she’s some kind of an idiot. Lydia sharpens her glare.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s why you wear _a helmet_. That is not a lacrosse bruise, Jackson Whittemore, and I want to know what the hell you’ve been up to lately.”

“Believe it or not, Lydia, a lot of the things I do are none of your business,” Jackson says, with his most condescending look. Oh they will just _see_ about that.

“Oh _really_?” Lydia demands, hands on her hips, dialing the glare all the way up to eleven.

“In fact,” Jackson says. “I’m pretty sure that _nothing_ I do is really any of your business any more, Lydia.”

“What are you talking about, you are my _boyfriend_ ,” she snaps flatly.

“Uh, I _was_ your boyfriend,” Jackson says. It takes a moment to realize what he means.

“You’re dumping me?” she asks. “ _You’re_ dumping _me_?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Jackson says. “And actually, now that we’re not dating, I don’t even have to stand here for the rest of this conversation.” He steps off around her, not even _looking_ at her, and oh, this will _not_ stand.

“You’re going to regret this, Jackson Whittemore!” Lydia shouts after him. And he will. She will _see to it._ One way or another.

 

Stiles has been acting weird. Er. Than normal. Scott’s been _busy_ , sure, with his job, and school, and trying to get good enough to actually _play_ lacrosse this year, and most importantly of all with _Allison_ , but he still notices things like that. It’s Stiles. Scott kind of knows him better than anyone else in the universe. When he starts getting all cagey and weird, Scott notices.

He hasn’t complained about Scott and Allison going off together at Allison’s house once in, like, _weeks_. Scott apologized the first couple of times, but Stiles just kept shrugging it off, and like, Scott guesses Allison’s aunt is into some of that same old weird history stuff that Stiles has been going on about lately? So they have something to talk about, at least, but when Scott asks him about it, Stiles always ends up changing the subject. He thinks he’s being stealth about it, but Scott’s known Stiles for seven and a half years. He’s so not stealth.

He also hasn’t climbed in Scott’s window in like a month, which has to be some kind of record, so Scott’s taking the initiative tonight. Allison’s got some kind of family thing going on. Stiles promised to pick him up from the animal clinic, they’re going to get burgers and curly fries, and Scott is going to ambush him with questions until he spills.

The Jeep honks out front of the clinic, and Scott rolls his eyes and grabs his bag. “Have a good night, Dr. Deaton.”

“You, too, Scott.” Dr. Deaton is doing something complicated on the computer involving charts or filing taxes, Scott doesn’t really know, but he looks up at Scott over the monitor when he says it. “Be careful out there,” he warns. “Full moon tonight. You never know what might be lurking.”

It’s a weird thing to say, but it’s Dr. Deaton saying it, so Scott just shrugs a little with a confused smile, says, “I’m always careful,” and heads out. He’s _starving_. Food first. Confrontations later.

The sheriff is working tonight, so they end up sprawled out on Stiles’ floor with their junk food haul, Scott leaning back against the bed, Stiles laid out on his stomach and pretending like he’s some kind of _subtle_ with the way he keeps trying to steal Scott’s curly fries.

“Okay,” Scott says, because he is totally willing to take divine inspiration where he gets it, and grabs the fries up to hold over his head. Stiles is probably going to end up eating most of them anyway, so Scott might as well get something out of it. “You can have the fries, _if_ you tell me something.”

Stiles groans. “No fair, blackmail, you know my weakness,” he says, but he can’t reach the fries without getting up, and Scott totally called how lazy Stiles is feeling right now. He ate like two and a half burgers. Scott’s got a window of about twenty minutes here before Stiles is ready to actually get up and fight him instead of answering questions, and he’s totally ready to use it.

“Okay, what the hell is _up_ with you lately?” Scott asks. “You’ve been acting really weird, and you keep showing up over at Allison’s house, even when I’m not around.”

“That happened _once_ ,” Stiles says, “and before you say it, that time with the flat does _not_ count.”

“Dude,” Scott says. He reaches out with one foot and toes Stiles in the shoulder. “Quit stalling and just spill.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says. For a second, Scott thinks he’s moving to get up, but Stiles just ends up rolling himself over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“I seriously think this is the first time I’ve _ever_ seen you at a loss for words,” Scott says. “Are you casing Allison’s house for secret passages and stuff? Are you trying to find pirate treasure and not tell anyone?”

“Don’t be stupid, you know I’d tell you about that,” Stiles fires back immediately. Then he stops talking. Scott waits. Stiles can’t handle the sound of silence for too long.

“Look, I honestly don’t know what’s going on,” Stiles says finally. “I told her I was a shitty liar, and obviously I’ve got to keep it from my dad, but I told her I wasn’t going to be able to lie to you about it forever. I don’t even want to, I just don’t know what to _say_.”

“First time for everything,” Scott says. “Who’s ‘her’? Allison’s aunt?” She’s the only ‘her’ Scott can remember seeing Stiles actually talk to, except for Allison, and she would’ve told Scott if she knew what was up. Not that it really makes sense to be Allison’s aunt, either, if there’s no pirate treasure buried in the house, but what does Scott know?

“Yep,” Stiles says to his ceiling. “We had sex.”

Scott blinks. “You what?” he asks. That doesn’t even make _sense_.

“Like, six times now, I think?” Stiles says, still in that same sort of really calm tone, like he’s reading out loud in class about some subject that doesn’t really interest him. “She’s pretty good. Not that I’ve actually got anything to compare it to, but there you go.”

“Isn’t she like thirty?” Scott asks. He’s sort of stuck on this whole thing, here. Allison’s aunt is hot, but she’s _old_. Stiles is _Stiles,_ he doesn’t have sex. Of course, Scott didn’t have sex until about a month ago, so maybe all the rules are changing now, but still, what the fuck?

“Twenty-seven,” Stiles says. “And a half. Her birthday’s in May. And age is just a number, which, while one hundred percent true, won’t stop my dad from flipping out all over the place if he finds out, so you can’t say anything. Not to your mom, not to anyone.”

“Well, what about Allison?” Scott asks automatically. “And hey, d’you think your dad might have a _reason_ for flipping out? I mean, no offense, but what totally grown-up woman who looks like _that_ wants some kid who’s just a sophomore in high school?”

“Hey, your guess is as good as mine, dude, but apparently she _does_ , and I’m not arguing.” Stiles rolls back over onto his stomach, actually looks at Scott again, finally. “Seriously, she’s into me. I have the sex drive of a healthy sixteen-year-old boy, and like you said, she looks like that. Nobody’s getting taken advantage of here. I’m not really sure how this is my _life_ , but it’s not something I’m getting worried over.”

“Then why couldn’t you tell me?” Scott asks. Stiles sighs.

“Because it’s weird?” he says. “Because if my dad finds out, he’s not going to stop to ask questions, he’s just going to go off waving handcuffs around and defending my honor like some princess in a tower? I know what I’m getting into here. We’re not _dating_ , we’ve got totally different plans for the rest of our lives, especially since mine includes finishing high school, and I think hers includes moving out of Beacon Hills within the next six months.” Scott has not been thinking that far ahead. Scott’s been absolutely refusing to think that far ahead, actually, because if Allison and her family move again, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s going to do, but it’s not going to be pretty. “We’re just...I don’t know, having fun? She likes spending time with me. It’s nice. And with you going on about Allison all the time--and don’t _even_ open your mouth to argue with me, you _know_ I’m right.”

Scott closes his mouth, because yeah, Stiles is right. He does kind of go on about Allison a lot. “So you’re not in love with her?” he checks. Scott isn’t really sure whether that makes things better or worse, but at least he can know what he’s dealing with.

“Nope,” Stiles says. “I will let you know if that changes, and you can get my pathetic sorry hypothetical ass drunk as befits your role as my best friend, but I don’t think it’s exactly a big risk here.” He shoves himself up onto his knees. “Now give me the curly fries, asshole.”

 

Every moon is different. There are some they spend dripping in blood and some they spend inside, sitting together in whatever living room they have at the time. There was one full moon they went tearing after a stampede of bison in Yellowstone Park, snapping at hooves and dodging horns, just for the thrill of it. Other times, they’ve stalked and cornered unsuspecting human prey through shadowed city streets, splitting up and circling around to herd their quarry to the Alpha’s claws. Sometimes it’s training. Sometimes it’s play. Allison’s lost count.

The nights always begin, though, with moonrise and the deepening cloak of dusk. Unless there’s some plan that can’t be avoided or the Alpha has orders, full moon nights always start the same way.

Outside. Together. The five of them, and any other betas they might have picked up along the way, standing together on warm summer nights or knee-deep in snow, a few scant miles from summer wildfires, or under the eerie green-sky calm that spells tornado weather. Wolves survive anything. Allison’s grandfather has led them safely through everything.

The Alpha stands before them, tucked into the skin of his human shape, and smiles with all his teeth. “It’s a good night for wolves,” he says. “Let’s play a game.”

Allison does her best to copy her parents and her aunt so she doesn’t lean too far forward, doesn’t accidentally break for the tree line too soon. They’re all spring-wound ready, thrilled on the electricity of the moonlight, just waiting for the Alpha’s word to _go_. 

“Let’s have a race,” the Alpha says. “Down to the ravine, to the end of the point, and back.”

Allison likes game nights, especially when there aren’t any extra betas with the pack. It’s not every day that the whole family gets to come together and just be _happy_. Sometimes they hunt each other through forest or fields or mountain caves, like human children playing tag or hide-and-go-seek.

It’s never quite as exciting as a real full moon hunt, especially one after human prey, but the games are familiar, more predictable. When it’s just the pack playing, Allison’s father is always fast and her mother is always clever, the Alpha always wins, and Allison always loses. Sometimes when they have extra betas, Allison can catch them off-guard, but they don’t really count. They’re never around for long.

Anyway the point isn’t the winning, it’s the running, the night air, the giddy excitement of listening for her family through the trees. The point is that the full moon is overhead, and Aunt Kate is shifting from foot to foot by Allison’s side, and it’s time to _move_.

“Win however you can,” the Alpha instructs with a smile. Oh, it will be a close-quarters race, then, tonight, Allison will have to dash as fast as she can and try not to get caught off guard, tripped up or pulled down by anyone in her family at the same time. She eyes the distance to the tree line. She can do it. She’ll never win, but someday she’ll play well enough to impress her family. “Take no humans. _Don’t be spotted._ ” There’s _force_ behind the last order, crackling sharp with Alpha power, before he relaxes back into his hunter’s smile. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Go.”

Allison springs forward, and the ground is firm and just a little moist under her palms, and she just barely dodges Aunt Kate before she makes the tree line, dives through the undergrowth to the right, tries to lose herself in the trees, the rocks, the _chase_.

The moon sings. Allison could run all night, and maybe she will. Maybe later she and Aunt Kate will tussle on the lawn while Allison’s parents slip off to some corner of the woods past the range of hearing, maybe they’ll dig claws into each other for practice and then lick their own wounds until they heal. Maybe the Alpha will decide he wants to see what Allison can do instead, or maybe the family will turn from hunting each other to the deer overrunning the forest, or maybe Allison will just keep running, and running, with the moon rushing in her veins, her family close by, and the Alpha stalking through the forest, there to protect them all.

 

Derek doesn’t go out in the Preserve at night any more. With Jackson, that goes double. Derek’s the last line of justice and revenge that’s still standing, here. There’s nobody else _left_.

Laura couldn’t survive against the Argents, and Laura hunted for fifteen, almost twenty years. Even if Derek armed him to the teeth, Jackson would be, at best, an inconvenient snack. Knowing Jackson, he’s the kind of asshole who’d leave incriminating evidence around his bedroom and send law enforcement after Derek even after he died, too. Derek doesn’t have time for that. Like hell he’s letting Jackson go anywhere on the full moon unsupervised.

Last night, Derek pushed Jackson through sparring until the kid was ready to fall over from exhaustion, and only let him leave when Derek was _sure_ Jackson was too tired to go anywhere but straight home. He mostly demanded that Jackson show up for more training this morning as a way to make sure the kid hadn’t been bleary enough to drive into a tree last night. Jackson’s not much of a hunter, but it still would’ve been a waste. Or something like that. God, Derek spends way, way too much time with this kid.

Jackson has spent a not-inconsiderable amount of Derek’s time whining about his girlfriend, and even more, in the past week or so, his _ex_ -girlfriend. Even so, when Derek cautiously opens his door in response to the flurry of pounding knocks to find a short redhead in a tight dress wearing a furious expression, he’s honestly at a loss for any sort of response.

“Well?” she asks impatiently. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Derek should really just shut the door back in her face, but he has a gut feeling that she’d just break it right down, and he has _neighbors_ here. So he steps back instead, just one pace, far enough for the girl to sweep in the apartment door and shut it firmly behind her.

“So, you’re the reason he’s been skipping out on all his friends and showing up bruised to school on Mondays,” the girl says briskly. “Derek Hale, correct?”

“Who _are_ you?” Derek asks. The girl rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand.

“Lydia Martin,” she says. Derek takes the outstretched hand automatically, shakes it once before he pulls back. “Jackson’s girlfriend. Which is why I’ve spent the past week trying to figure out what kind of _insane_ club or cult or whatever he’s gotten himself involved in now.”

Of course. “Jackson!” Derek shouts. “Get out here.”

Derek’s been using the bedroom as a work room and practice area basically since he moved in. Right now, Jackson’s _supposed_ to be practicing his form on the punching bag, though Derek wouldn’t put it past him to’ve given up on the punches and turned to fix his hair in the long standing mirror as soon as Derek left the room.

Jackson is shirtless, sweaty, wearing nothing but a pair of old gym shorts. Lydia’s eyebrows go up, and Derek groans internally. Of course, it’s a more plausible cover story than anything _else_ he could think up, but the last thing Derek needs is the ire of a teenage girl stubborn enough to tail somebody halfway across town, who thinks Derek stole her boyfriend.

“Lydia?” Jackson asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Funny, that’s just what I was going to ask you,” Derek says. He stalks over into the living room, leaving both teenagers standing there. “Get rid of her.”

And then he sits on his couch, and waits. Jackson’s sure to fuck this up, but Derek does not have any desire to be a part of it. He’d send them both out to argue in the hall if he wasn’t worried about the neighbors.

“Lydia, _what are you doing here_?” Jackson hisses again. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees her sniff and flip her hair back.

There’s a copy of National Geographic lying on the coffee table. Derek kicks his feet up and flips it open.

“Well, I could ask you the same question, except from the looks of things I already know the answer,” she says, and yeah, Derek was afraid she was going there. “Really, Jackson? Some guy from out-of-town who has no job and lives in an apartment? You couldn’t be cheating on me with Danny?”

“We’re not...I’m not _gay_ , Lydia, and I’m not sleeping with anybody, and even if I _were_ it would be none of your business, because we are _broken up_ ,” Jackson snaps. Derek snorts and flips another page in his magazine. Oh, look, the bone-filled catacombs of Paris. Looks like a vacation.

“Then why are you coming half-naked out of his bedroom?” Lydia asks sweetly. This is what Derek gets for renting a place with only one bedroom in it. This, and a near-constant backache from sleeping on the couch. No wonder the Callahans always have warehouses.

“Because... _Lydia._ ” Jackson sounds just about at his wit’s end. Derek shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, not when he’s going to have to clean up Jackson’s mess with the girl afterwards, but he might as well revel a little in Jackson’s sheer discomfort, first. “It’s none of your business, now you need to get out of here, go home, and not tell _anyone_ where you found me. _Now._ ”

“Or maybe I’ll just give Allison Argent a call,” Lydia says, and instantly Derek’s inner amusement level drops by half. “She can’t possible lie to me or betray me any more than _you_ already have, and I bet she won’t complain as much about spending our Saturday shopping. Congratulations, Jackson, you’re being replaced.”

“Lydia, don’t you dare,” Jackson says, lower and dangerously. “You shouldn’t go near her.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Jackson Whittemore,” Lydia tells him. “We’re broken up, remember? None of your business.”

“This is _not a joke_ , Lydia, they’re _dangerous,_ don’t go near them,” says Jackson, and okay, that is definitely too close for comfort, Jackson has twenty seconds to get himself out of this mess before Derek goes over there and--

“Why?” Lydia demands. “Are they space aliens? Wanted fugitives? Cannibals in some sort of strange little cult?”

“They’re _werewolves_ , Lydia,” Jackson snaps, and Derek is already swinging up off the couch, into action, too late, Jackson is a fucking _idiot_. “Their whole family _kills people_ , and--”

“And I think that’s about all the time we have for today,” Derek says with forced cheer. He comes up behind Jackson and slings an arm around the kid’s back, rests one hand on Jackson’s bare shoulder, just for good measure. ‘Creepy twenty-two-year-old dating a high school kid’ is a much better cover than ‘guy who thinks he’s a werewolf hunter’. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Werewolves,” Lydia says flatly. “You really think they’re _werewolves._ ”

Derek’s fingers tighten warningly on Jackson’s shoulder. “Of course not,” Jackson scoffs, but Derek can tell the girl isn’t buying it. “Goodbye, Lydia.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” she says. “And you can drop the little act, Jackson’s been stalking Allison Argent like he thinks nobody will notice for the past week. And I’m not saying he _couldn’t_ , in some universe, have an abusive older boyfriend, but I’ve known Jackson for a long time, and in my opinion it would take a little more than a month and a half to condition him to the point where he’s picking up bruises like he’s had, while still refusing to tell even Danny that he’s even sleeping with a guy in the first place.” Lydia fixes her eyes directly on Derek, who feels the peculiar urge to take a step back and possibly shrink himself down into a little ball, under the force of one sixteen-year-old girl’s glare. She’s...really something. “You really don’t want to know what I’d have done to you, if I thought I was wrong about that.” Derek takes his hand off of Jackson’s shoulder.

“You should really go home,” Derek says. “Forget anything you’ve heard here, stop trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Oh, I know what’s going on,” Lydia says breezily. “Werewolves. Jackson just told me, remember? And for future reference, if you’re trying to deter somebody from a line of questioning, breaking in to shut down the conversation just as soon as they hear one vital piece of information isn’t exactly the best way to throw them off the scent.”

Derek steps back automatically as Lydia brushes forward, between Derek and Jackson, and takes herself into the living room. She sits down at the very precise midpoint of the couch, crosses one leg over the other, and rests her folded hands on her knee.

“Well?” she says. “You have half an hour to show me your evidence and convince me to believe in werewolves, or whatever that’s secretly code for, before I start shrieking at the cops about statutory rape and whatever else I feel like. I’d start now.”

 

There’s just nothing like the morning after a good full moon. Kate _stretches_ up towards the ceiling of her bedroom, and she can feel the soreness in every single muscle. Mmm. Feels like the aftermath of a good, hard fuck, only the full moon ache lasts longer. Goes deeper, too. Damn, Kate loves being a werewolf.

Chris and Victoria are still out cold, Kate can hear her brother snoring from here, and her father’s room is quiet. Allison’s moving around a little, though, and anyway Kate’s starving, so she might as well go put together some breakfast. If you can call it breakfast at 1:00 in the afternoon. There’s going to be bacon. Kate figures it counts.

The bacon’s barely even hit the pan when Allison pokes her head around the doorway, sleep-mussed and tousled, a little bloodstained but none the worse for the wear. Alpha got her pretty good a couple of times last night, but mostly it was just scrapes and bruises, and she’s all healed up by now.

“Start the eggs, sweetie, and throw on some toast,” Kate instructs, and Allison obediently opens the fridge to pull the carton out, groggy and eyes half-lidded. Chris and Victoria have to be awake by now, even if they’re not going to come down for a while. Forget coffee. The smell of bacon could raise the dead.

“Scott sent me a text,” Allison reports. “I think Stiles told him about you.”

“Figured that was coming,” Kate says, and pokes at a strip of sizzling bacon with a fork. She’d hoped for another week or two, but hey, the kid’s a talker. Not like she didn’t know what she was getting into. “What do you think, double date?”

“Out in public?” Allison asks.

“Yeah, I thought I’d take out an ad in the paper, too,” Kate says, and waits for Allison’s brain to wake up enough to catch up to the sarcasm. “Going to be interesting the next time they both come by for dinner, though, now.”

“I don’t think Scott was happy.” Allison rubs at her eyes, frowns at the mixing bowl. “Six eggs, or eight?”

“Leave half the carton for when your parents come down,” Kate advises. “Your mom can make her own omelet. And keeping Scott happy is _your_ job, sweetie.”

“He is! Or, he will be, as soon as I can talk to him.” Eggshells crack; Kate slides her fork into the pan and starts flipping bacon. “You’ve got Stiles under control, right? He won’t tell anybody else? About anything?”

“He doesn’t _know_ anything else,” Kate says. “And even if he did, so what? He’s mine. Just like Scott’s yours.” Allison nods, firmly, down towards her bowl. “Only difference is, I don’t actually want to _keep_ him.”

“How long, do you think?” Allison asks. “Until we leave?”

“Whenever the Alpha says,” Kate tells her, which Allison knows. Not that Kate isn’t wondering the same thing herself. Hale’s not even an annoyance right now, not really, and the glow of her last kill wore off weeks ago. Last night was nice, but Kate’s waiting for blood.

Soon, her father said. Soon enough. Until then, Kate’s got one boy to stalk from arm’s length who’s damn pretty when he cries, and a second to break in all for herself however she wants, so long as she doesn’t break him too hard to use him later.

“Aunt Kate, what do I do about Scott?” Allison’s bowl of eggs are plenty scrambled by now. Kate helpfully reaches over to turn another burner on, sends the little ring of flames leaping into life, while Allison rummages around for a frying pan. “I think he might really be upset.”

“Bring the boys over, we’ll all sit down and watch a movie, then you’ll distract him with your sexy body and feminine ways and he’ll get over it,” Kate says. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I do,” Allison says, and pours the bowl of scrambled eggs into the pan. They slop around, almost splashing up over the side, and Allison prods at them with a spatula. “You know I do, right?”

“Of course I know,” says Kate. “We’re family. That’s what family does. Now go get some plates for breakfast.”

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Lydia says, as sweetly as she can. “Your entire justification for this...this _hunting_ thing is that the normal human authorities aren’t equipped to handle a pack of super-powerful _werewolves_ , am I right?” She still can’t say _werewolf_ without a tinge of sarcasm. Not even after looking at the scratches on the back of Jackson’s neck, or the photos and video she demanded Derek show her, or even after that afternoon with the picnic and the flash of _blonde_ in the corner of her eye. It’s not enough proof. It won’t be enough proof until she sees it with her own two eyes, and even then she’s going to have questions.

But there is more than enough proof that the Argents aren’t who they say they are, and that everywhere they go, rashes of wild animal attacks break out, and bodies pile up in their wake. Lydia supposes that they could very well be the do-gooder hunters, and Derek the evil werething plotting to take them down, but he didn’t react to silver or wolfsbane when he showed them to her, so she’s waiting.

“They can’t,” Derek says, full of certainty. Lydia’s always been very good at telling when somebody’s lying to her. A skill like that can’t get publicized too often, or else people start finding ways around it, but she’s always _known._ Derek doesn’t read like he’s lying, not in any way. Which doesn’t mean he’s _right_ , but it is a point in his favor. 

“And you and your little...hunter clan friends can do it better, right?” Lydia asks.

“We have skills and resources the police don’t, yes,” Derek says impatiently. “Right now, I’m the best hope Beacon Hills has got.”

And all right, here’s Lydia’s dilemma. She came here to find out what was going on with Jackson, not uncover some seedy murder-plot underbelly and save the whole town. All she _has_ to do is go home, ignore everything, smile politely at Allison at school tomorrow, and go on about her life. People are going to die, but that’s not _her_ job to fix. She wouldn’t buy a plane ticket and rush over to Afghanistan to try and save the world there, would she? Lydia’s not really the save-the-world type. Her secret superhero identity is that she does math.

On the other hand, if she leaves now Jackson is going to end up in pieces, and now that she’s had an actual conversation with him, damn if Lydia doesn’t almost feel responsible for Derek, too. They’re just so _stupid_. She doesn’t know how they’re allowed outside without somebody to hold their hands crossing the streets.

“And so far, your superior skills and resources have led to one person being brutally murdered, taking on a teenage lacrosse player as your only ally, and waiting around in your apartment hoping that inspiration will strike before the Argent family slaughters the whole town, or everybody in it dies of old age,” Lydia says. “Am I right?”

“We’ve been training, Lydia,” Jackson starts, but Derek ignores him completely. Well, he’s figured something out about handling Jackson, at least, even if he does still seem remarkably clueless about everything else in the world.

“You think you could do this better?” Derek asks. Ah. Well, they’re on the same page already, then, aren’t they.

“I assume there isn’t a salary involved in this position?” Lydia asks. “I’d like to start by reviewing all of the reports you have from your little hunter friends who’ve run into the Argents before, long form please, ideally with a few reports about dealing with other packs of approximately this size for reference, seeing as how I’ve never done this before. Summary form is fine for those, but I’ll want long form records I can go over myself later. I don’t do combat, I don’t do woods in the middle of the night, I don’t do anything that might stain or rip my clothes, but I would like a handgun. I assume you have somewhere to train me how to use it?”

Derek and Jackson are both staring at her. “We don’t file reports,” Derek says blankly. “This isn’t an office building.”

“Well, whatever information you’ve gotten from your friends, then,” Lydia says impatiently. “Notes, phone transcripts, any kind of first-hand account.” That doesn’t really cure the blank look. “Oh, for god’s sake, what have you been _doing_ for the past month and a half?”

“You just saw the files,” Derek says, gesturing in sharp annoyance at the pile of paper on the table. “We have news reports, property records, everything Laura or I ever heard--”

“Yes, and not one of those things comes from a hunter who’s actually faced them,” Lydia says. “Fine. We start with this. Derek is going to make some phone calls until he tracks down a hunter who’s actually gone up against the Argents, or, if he thinks he’d prefer, he’s going to give me a list of phone numbers and I will make the calls for him. In the meantime, Jackson can tell me all about what else you’ve done with your training and planning time, since it clearly hasn’t been research. Are we clear?”

Derek seems shell-shocked. Lydia _loves_ having that sort of effect on someone. It’ll wear off eventually, but she ought to be able to keep him in line for a while yet, at least.

“Lydia, you can’t just come in here and start giving orders,” Jackson blusters. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I know, we’re broken up,” she says. “But I might want to consider taking you back someday, and it’s going to be hard to do that if one of us is dead because Derek’s planning abilities rival a precocious second-grader. Consider this my investment in our possible future.”

Clearly, _somebody_ has to do it.

 

It was a good full moon. Three months in Beacon Hills, and only one human death so far--Chris would be amazed that his sister and father were showing such restraint, if he weren’t long past ever letting himself be amazed at anything his father does. The Alpha does as he wills, and the rest of the pack follows. So it’s always been, and so it will be, for at least so long as the Alpha is alive.

He’s dedicated to this long game, with the Hale boy, though Chris can’t help but wonder what his father is hoping to get out of it here. Oh, if the pack wanted to settle down for the long term this house and these woods would be perfect, but the Argents don’t settle. They haven’t, not since Chris’s mother was alpha, not since he was a child. The bodies tend to stack up too quickly, and even Chris’s father can’t hold off all the hunters in the country forever.

Derek Hale just doesn’t seem to be much of a _challenge_. Oh, Chris has spotted him watching them, and Allison says he’s taken an apprentice, one of the boys at her school, but that’s nothing to celebrate. Chris would never, will never say that the Alpha made a mistake, but _if_ the point was an entertaining hunt, then perhaps it would have been better to bite Derek and leave his sister alive.

Of course, that just means that the Alpha probably has another priority entirely in mind. Chris doesn’t ask what. He’ll find out in his father’s own good time, one way or another.

Chris just hopes...well. He would make a different choice, if he were alpha. He’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains premeditated seduction of a minor by an adult with seriously unfriendly ulterior motives (on-screen) and semi-consensual statutory rape (off-screen). We've also got stalking, some minor physical violence, messed-up power dynamics, and more disturbing abuse implications and time spent with the Argent family. Fun times.


	4. Chapter 3: And the ravens are leaving the tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Plans', by Bloc Party.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings in the end notes.

Phone calls. Derek _hates_ phone calls.

Unfortunately, Lydia has a point, and since she seems to be managing to learn everything she possibly can from Derek’s files and the internet, infiltrate Allison Argent’s social circle to a degree Derek couldn’t have dreamed, and keep Jackson out of trouble at the same time, that probably means he has to fulfill his end of the bargain. And that, apparently, means phone calls.

According to Stacy Callahan, who Derek worked for on a wendigo job about a year and a half ago, her brother’s husband Nathan’s branch of one or another family had some doings with the Argents way back when, if she’s remembering the names right. Derek is fairly sure he’s distantly related to Nathan Zimmerman through one line or another, if only because all the families are so interbred at this point that Derek suspects the only hunters he’s not related to, at least by marriage, are the apprentices sitting in his own living room, but they’ve never met that he can recall. It’s a vaguely familiar last name; maybe a smaller family out of Boston?

Stacy gave Derek a phone number and promised to let Nathan know he’d be calling, so here Derek is, dialing up a near-total stranger for hunting advice. He’s going to kill Lydia Martin. Slowly. Or maybe he just won’t intervene when the Argents do it for him.

“‘Lo?” The voice on the other end is gruff, but not rude. Derek forces his fingers to relax around the plastic of his cell phone, and tries to put just a tiny hint of pleasant civility into his voice.

“Nathan Zimmerman?” he tries. “I’m Derek Hale, I’m a cousin of your sister-in-law’s. I think she told you I’d be calling?”

“Hale!” The voice warms considerably, and Derek relaxes exactly two fractions of an inch. “Stacy said something, yeah, here, let me just...” There’s a clattering, a sound of shifting papers. Derek waits. The hunters he’s known have ranged from ‘highly organized’ to ‘aftermath of a cyclone’, but his experience suggests a whole lot more of the latter. Then Nathan says, “I heard about your sister. I’m sorry about what happened to her. I hadn’t seen her since, god, she must’ve been three or four back then, I worked a job with your parents up in Vermont. They were good people, too. I was fresh out of school, brand new at the whole damn game, but they took me on and showed me the ropes. They were a big loss to the community.”

Derek swallows, because it hurts a little to breathe. Everyone he’s talked to so far has had something to say about Laura, but most of them haven’t bothered to bring up their parents. People die in this line of work. Hunters are usually familiar enough with the concept not to try to force sympathy on anyone who’d rather not hear it. Derek straightens his back, and moves on.

“I’m trying to get some information,” he says. “A pack of werewolves called the Argents. They’re about five strong, family unit. Stacy says you might have run into them?”

“Oh, I remember the Argents,” Nathan says, and Derek perks up hopefully for about three seconds before he adds, “That wasn’t me, though, that was my aunt Mary and uncle Will, over on the Storm side. The pack was pretty new back then, or it’d just had a change in leadership, so they were just firming up. You know who’s alpha now?”

“His name’s Gerard,” Derek says. “Gerard Argent. Do you have your aunt and uncle’s phone numbers?”

“Uncle Will had a heart attack about eight years ago, and Aunt Mary went down to a blood curse sometime in the nineties,” Nathan reports, and Derek grits his teeth. “That’s the same name though, I think--older guy? Maybe in his sixties or seventies now? Nasty temper?”

“That’s him,” Derek reports, and Nathan snorts into the phone.

“Just figures,” he says. “So I’m guessing pack structure hasn’t changed much in the past twenty years. You’ve got to be able to find somebody who’s seen them since. I’ve got a box full of notes in our attic that I inherited when my uncle died, I know my aunt Mary used to keep tabs on that pack. Don’t think Uncle Will ever went in there, so it cuts off around ‘98, but it could help. I can try and dig them out tonight, email you some scans?”

“That would be ideal,” Derek says. Maybe he can make Lydia go through it all, or Jackson, instead of having to do it himself. No, Derek will get to make _more phone calls_.

“Hey, do you know, they still have a beta, a female, she’d be about in her early forties now?” Nathan asks conversationally. “Red hair, nasty disposition?”

“She’s there,” says Derek. He hasn’t seen much of Victoria Argent, outside of her home--she doesn’t leave as much as the others--but he’s been conveniently in the area once or twice when she and the second went out to dinner. There’s no doubt in his mind that she’s acting alpha female, even if she’s not directly responsible for most of the pack kills. “Why, what do you know about her?”

“Well, she used to be my cousin Vicki, back in the day,” Nathan says, which rocks Derek back in surprise. “Gerard Argent, he’s got this thing--ninety percent sure it’s a pattern, you can look through my aunt’s papers, but I’ve heard enough stories over the years--but he’s one of those alphas that likes to bite hunters instead of killing them.”

“To avoid police attention,” Derek says flatly. He knows the trend. His family’s seen it before. It makes sense.

“Maybe,” says Nathan. “You get the idea, though, that this guy does it just as much to be cruel. Watch the fallout. He’s a real piece of work, Gerard Argent. Anyway, Vikki decided she’d rather live as a monster than die a hero, so she took off with the pack. She was always a weird one, though. Liked her clothes and her cooking more than she liked the hunt, but she liked the hunt just a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

Derek knows the type. There’s a shiver of horror, thinking about a _hunter_ going so wrong, but he knows the type. There’s a reason the procedures for after a bite are in place. Hunters are some of the last people on earth you’d want to trust with a werewolf’s killing instincts and power. They’ve got too many instincts of their own.

“Your sister was a good woman,” Nathan says, after Derek’s been silent for a few moments too long to be polite. “Not as stubborn as your dad, god bless him.”

“Thank you,” says Derek, pulling up some of the vestiges of his manners. “If you could email over that paperwork tonight.”

“No problem,” Nathan promises. “Look, get one in for my aunt and uncle, if you get a chance, okay? And I’ll see if I can think up any other names who can tell you more.”

“Thanks,” Derek says again, and beeps the phone off. He takes a long, deep breath, massages at his eyes with his fingertips. This is why he hadn’t wanted to make phone calls in the first place.

It’s better than having to explain to Lydia why he can’t, though, so Derek takes another deep breath and forces some of the knots in his shoulders to unclench. Before the next set of calls, he’s going another ten rounds with the punching bag. It’s his apartment. He’ll do what he wants.

 

There are these moments sometimes when Scott’s holding her, lying on her floor with the one big window open so they can see the stars, that Allison becomes utterly, heart-stoppingly terrified. She’s never felt this _happy_. It’s not like being giddy, or joyful, a shopping trip with Aunt Kate, Grandfather telling her she’s done a good job. It’s some impossible kind of emotion that rips right out of the pit of her heart, so strong it literally feels like something’s _tearing_ inside her. It’s _good_ , but it’s _terrible_ , too much and honestly painful. In those moments, she isn’t sure whether she wants to burrow deeper into Scott’s arms until his closeness smothers all the fear away, or pull out of his grip and stay on opposite sides of the room until some of the intensity subsides.

This might be what being in love feels like. Allison’s not sure anyone’s ever felt it like this.

Scott _has_ to take the bite. He has to. Maybe she won’t die, if she has to leave him behind when her family leaves Beacon Hills, but Allison honestly can’t be sure. She didn’t know it was possible to hurt this much with terror over something good. She never thought she’d get to have something like Scott at all.

She has to keep him. She has to make sure he’s _safe_. She’s seen Scott in the middle of an asthma attack twice now, in the woods, grappling for his inhaler and gasping for air while Allison stood by, completely helpless. He’s so _human_. His lungs, his throat, they’re already broken there inside his body, just from being born. Allison can fix that. She can make Scott whole, make him everything he’s supposed to be, she just needs Grandfather to say _yes_.

She’s been working on Scott, little by little. She has to. Her father and Grandfather are watching, deciding, judging. Allison’s never really cared about how they decide who gets made into a beta before, but this is different. Scott’s not just some piece of cannon fodder to throw at hunters next time things get tricky. Scott and Allison might turn out to be like her dad and her mom.

“How much do you want to get rid of your asthma?” Allison asks one night, tracing aimless patterns across his shirt. Her head is pillowed on his shoulder; with one ear, she can hear the sounds of her mother starting the dishwasher in the kitchen, her father watching TV with Kate in the living room, her grandfather in his study. With the other ear, the one pressed up against him, Allison can hear all Scott’s blood rushing around inside him, the sound of his lungs filling with air and then letting it go, all the very quiet noises of somebody _alive_. “It almost killed you more than once.”

“Well I mean, I’d love to, but until they invent some new medical procedure to completely fix my lungs, I can’t,” Scott says. “I don’t think about it like that very much.”

“But, if you could,” she presses. “Do you ever think about how much you might be willing to do?”

Scott shifts, like he’s uncomfortable, and Allison stops running her fingers over his chest. “Sometimes,” he admits. “I don’t know, I’m kind of boring. I don’t think I’d do very much.”

Allison tilts her head back, until she can meet Scott’s eyes, shining ever-so-slightly in the dark. “What about for me?” she asks. “What would you do for me?”

“Anything,” Scott promises, and leans forward to kiss her.

Allison has to believe him. She has no other choice. If she doesn’t believe Scott, she’ll never convince Grandfather to, and if Grandfather doesn’t believe in Scott’s loyalty...

Well, then everything’s lost.

 

"So boys,” Allison’s father says, smiling in that way that always makes Scott want to check that he’s not carrying some kind of weapon, over the table of what’s very quickly becoming one of the top five most awkward dinners of Scott’s life. “How are classes?”

“Um, good,” Scott says, glancing for the umpteenth time at Stiles. This isn’t the first time they’ve stayed over at the Argents’ for dinner, but it’s definitely the first time since Scott found out about Stiles and Kate last week, and Scott kind of can’t stop looking at them. Allison puts her hand on Scott’s knee and squeezes.

“Yeah, we’ve got this chem sub, since our teacher got killed last month?” At least Stiles can always be counted on to say things, even when Scott kind of wishes he wouldn’t. Kate keeps looking at him, which would be weird enough. Except that every once in a while Scott looks up, and Kate will be shooting that knowing smile at _Scott_.

“Yes, you’d mentioned,” says Allison’s dad. “Isn’t it terrible how things like that happen.” He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s terrible. Why is Allison’s dad always so much more terrifying when he’s _smiling_? It’s like he always knows something Scott doesn’t, and Scott has the uncomfortable feeling that what Mr. Argent knows is ‘where to hide his daughter’s boyfriend’s body’.

“Oh, I don’t know, Chris,” Kate says. “From everything they’ve told us about the guy, it seems to me like some lucky mountain lion did these boys a favor.”

“You know, it’s amazing how upset people usually get when you say something like that in public,” Stiles says.

“Well, I’m guessing most people never had to sit through a chemistry class with him, am I right?” Kate asks. “Some people don’t know good luck when it happens to them.”

“Some people just don’t have the internal fortitude necessary to recognize a gift when it’s given,” says Allison’s mother, and why does Scott suddenly get the uncomfortable, squirming feeling that she’s looking towards _him_? “Especially one in such...grisly wrapping.”

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” Allison’s dad asks, and he’s still smiling. “What about you, Scott? Do you think it’s fair to enjoy the benefits of somebody else’s death like that? It might be a terrible thing, but chemistry class is much easier now, am I right?”

“Um.” Scott glances right at Allison, who seems to be trying to tell him something with her eyes, then left at Stiles, who’s attacking his pot roast and obviously has no idea what Allison might be trying to say, then back to Allison again. No help there. Allison squeezes Scott’s knee encouragingly.

“I like our chem sub,” Scott says, because that, at least, seems to be solid ground. “She’s a lot nicer than Mr. Harris, but it’s definitely not fair that he had to die for us to get her.” That’s a good safe middle line, right? He can’t get in trouble for that?

Up at the head of the table, Allison’s grandfather taps his fork against his plate and lets out a sharp _tch_.

“Nothing _fair_ about it,” Allison’s grandfather says. “One thing you’ll learn in this life, my boy. Life and death aren’t earned. They’re given.” It’s the first thing he’s said in...a while, at least. Everybody else at the table has dropped dead silent. Even Stiles. They’ve eaten here often enough to know at least one of the unspoken rules--nobody interrupts when Allison’s grandfather talks.

He’s looking at Scott like he expects some kind of answer. Scott officially no longer has any idea what’s going on here, if he ever did. “Given,” he says. “You mean like god?” he tries. Allison’s family hasn’t shown any signs of being really religious, but maybe he missed something.

“God,” Allison’s grandfather scoffs, “fate, a _higher power_. Call it whatever you want. It’s the law of nature. You had no control over being born. You didn’t ask for it, you didn’t _deserve_ it, but it happened to you anyway. And whether it’s cancer, or a car accident, or a mountain lion, there’s always going to be something else out there more powerful than you making sure you have just as little control over when you die.”

The thing about Allison’s grandfather, besides the way everyone in her family always goes totally quiet when he talks, is that whenever he looks at someone it’s with the _full_ weight of his attention. Scott tries really, really hard not to twitch.

“Well, except for people who kill themselves,” Stiles points out. Scott wants to kick him under the table, but that heavy stare is already sliding off of Scott and over to Stiles, so Scott’s torn between actual gratitude and not wanting to make Stiles jump or get him into more trouble than he might already be in.

It’s stupid. Stiles is always bringing up points and taking discussions down weird side tangents, but even without Allison ever having to say it, Scott knows. You don’t contradict Grandpa Argent. It just feels really, really not smart.

“Like that suicide victim back in January,” Kate says casually. “What was her name? Lara Hale?”

“Laura,” Stiles corrects automatically. Scott has _no idea_ why the atmosphere in the room just untensed by, like, eighty percent. “Right, exactly.”

“It may look like control from our perspective, but that kind of control is an illusion,” Allison’s father says. He picks up a knife and starts buttering a roll. People are moving again. Scott’s not entirely sure when they stopped. “We have no idea what might have driven that woman to that point, what...other factors might have been at play.”

Grandpa Argent is settling back in his chair like he’s satisfied, which Scott _really hopes_ means he’s not going to hold a grudge. Stiles is looking at Kate in total gratitude, and okay, Scott can back off a little there. At least she’s not as terrifying as the rest of Allison’s family.

“Well,” Allison’s mother says briskly. “This is a little more morbid than I like my dinner conversation. I don’t even know how we get on these topics sometimes. Allison, won’t you pass the peas?”

Allison takes her hand off of Scott’s knee to lift the bowl over. When Scott glances over, she looks tense, but her smile isn’t totally forced. It could be worse.

“So, Scott,” says Allison’s mother. “Allison tells me she’ll be going to see the lacrosse game this Saturday. Do you think there’s any chance you’ll see play?” She flicks her eyes over towards Stiles, then zeroes right back in on Scott. “Either of you?”

 

 

Lydia is thoroughly proud of herself. She may at some point feel compelled to reconsider the life decisions that brought her to plotting the downfall and death of an entire family of werewolves, rather than spending her time at Macy’s like she’d intended this weekend, but nobody can say she hasn’t done it _well_.

Derek’s apartment has flow charts, now, tacked up on the walls. Lydia hadn’t originally planned to redecorate quite this way, but Derek and Jackson seemed to be having enough trouble following the basic logic of her position that she really had no choice. Flow charts are a highly-maligned teaching tool, Lydia feels. Jackson had made a snide remark last week about whether they needed a flow chart to tell the difference between all the flow charts, but Derek had cuffed him across the back of the head. There’s something really very empowering about having a musclebound 22-year-old like Derek Hale willing to follow her direction. Hunting werewolves might be a terrible life decision, but it has been fun.

“So,” she says. “Jackson, you’re our resident sports expert. What’s our offensive play?”

“This isn’t a game,” Derek growls, and Lydia raises her eyebrows.

“Maybe not to you,” she says. “I’d say we have more than enough evidence to suggest that to Gerard Argent, everything’s been a game from the beginning. He doesn’t have anything against the Hales in particular. He antagonized you for fun.” Yes, Lydia Martin is now playing games with people who consider murder ‘fun’. It’s not as though she can back out now.

“We need a strong central play,” Jackson says, sounding more like the lacrosse captain she used to date than he has in weeks. “They’ve been underestimating us since we got on the field. They think we’re weak. If we get out there and _show_ them we’re not weak, we’ll get them on the defensive, and then we can run the field. Our way.”

“And bring home the state championship werewolf-hunting trophy for mommy and daddy to put on their mantel, too,” Derek says. “This isn’t a sport. You don’t lose points if the other team scores a goal. You _die_.”

“Then we’ll need to make sure it’s a shut-out,” Lydia says. “We have a flow chart for this--”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Lydia, what is with all the _flow charts_?” Jackson demands.

“Well, if you could follow simple logical abstractions when they were explained to you, I wouldn’t need to present them in graphical form, would I?” Lydia snaps back sweetly. 

Jackson’s not an idiot. He’s never been able to keep up with her, not really, but he used to be a lot quicker about trying. Lately he’s got bruises from training with Derek in all sorts of places he won’t let her see, and circles under his eyes that are starting to look like bruises. He’s barely talking to Danny, and he’s not sleeping, whether he’ll admit it or not. Lydia wants this over with.

“Now, as I was saying. We have two options. We can continue to do nothing, fortify our position, and wait in hopes that a hole in their so-far perfect defense opens up or they get bored enough to actually attack. Option two, we can strike first. Given that we have a number of options as to what form that strike can take, and they’ve been doing this for more than twenty years without any serious losses yet, I’d say we can all agree that option one is a dead end. Correct?” Derek hesitates before nodding, so Lydia adds, “Or we can take a detour to go down that branch of the flow chart and examine our possible options, _if_ they attack first, just to make sure we’re all convinced it’s a bad idea.”

“For god’s sake, can we get on with this?” Jackson demands irritably, and Derek waves a hand like it’s permission. Lydia continues on.

“Now, if we’re going to bring the fight to them, we have three main categories of strategies. Option 1 is a subtle war of attrition: things like setting traps in the woods around their house so they can’t safely go out, or getting the sheriff’s department interested in their doings. We do this in hopes that we’ll wear them down enough that by the time we get to one of the other two options, they’ll be out of sorts, weakened, and prone to make mistakes. I think this approach would be a mistake on our part, for reasons we’ll get to later. Secondly--” Lydia catches Derek rolling his eyes and pauses. “Yes, Derek?”

“No, no, go on,” Derek says. “You seem to have everything down, so please, feel free. Share it with us.”

His whole tone is heavy with irony, but Lydia doesn’t see him producing any better ideas, so she takes him at his word. This will be an excellent learning experience to remember on her thirtieth birthday, when the time comes to decide whether or not to have children.

“Our other two options as I see them are fairly simple,” Lydia says. “We provoke a direct fight, either by ambush, for option 2, or right out in the open, option 3. Both of these strategies have the benefit of surprise, since we haven’t done anything so far that the Argents would consider remotely life-threatening.” This is where they get down to the meat of the plan, the part where Lydia isn’t quite as sure of herself as she’s sounding. Oh, she’s got her opinions, and she knows better than to let on to any of her uncertainty, but she’s never done this before. She doesn’t _know_.

“Operation Stealth involves some of those techniques Derek’s been talking about,” Lydia says. “Traps, possibly deadly ones. We can look into using those sniper rifles. Bonuses are that we’ll be largely out of reach of the werewolves while pulling this stage off, and if we’re lucky, we might even be able to take more than one of them in the initial chaos. Of course, the drawbacks are that we can’t be sure of accurately targeting _any_ of the Argent werewolves, and we run the risk of involving civilian bystanders. I’m not sure what the sheriff’s opinion is on the subject of teenagers carrying assault rifles, but I can’t imagine he’d appreciate them being aimed at his son, and we know how much time Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall have been spending at the Argent house lately.”

“We’ll never get them all at once anyway,” Derek says. “Any members of the pack we miss will be out for blood in a way you can’t even imagine.”

“There’s no way we’ll get them all at once no matter what,” says Lydia. “We need to account for that. We get one opening move, and then they get to play back. And we can’t possibly take them all out in one blow, which means we want to do the second best thing: confuse and demoralize them as much as humanly possible.” Here’s the moment to sell it, if she’s going to. “Which is why I like option three the best. Operation Shock and Awe.”

“We’re in a military movie now?” Jackson mutters. Lydia ignores him. She has her flow charts. More importantly, she has a very pressing question that she’s been meaning to ask for some time.

“Why are we your only backup?” Lydia asks Derek bluntly. “You spent a week on the phone with different hunter contacts, so why are you trying to take on a pack of known werewolf mass murderers with two teenagers who’ve never even picked up a loaded gun before?”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “What, you don’t want to be here?” he asks. “Because I seem to recall someone inviting herself in because she couldn’t bear to be left out in the cold.”

“No, that was because the smell of incompetence and impending disaster gives me a headache,” says Lydia. “I’ve been under the impression that you’ve been wallowing in guilt and self-recrimination about your sister and don’t want anybody you know professionally to see you or tell you how terrible your planning is. If it’s a question of tradition and some kind of hunter etiquette that the Argents would know about but you haven’t bothered to share, that changes the plan entirely.”

Sometimes, blunt force trauma works best.

He’s angry now. She hasn’t made him angry before, not on purpose, but if Derek is angry then maybe he’ll finally _do something_. Lydia’s here because she calculates a 99% chance that, unchecked, the Argent family is going to actually kill someone, and approximately a 30% chance that that someone might be somebody she actually _likes_. Those are unacceptable numbers. It’s Derek’s job to do something about that, and if he keeps stalling like this, then Lydia will be the thorn in his side for as long as she has to.

“You think you know how this works?” Derek asks, pushing up from the couch. He’s much taller than her, and he looms like it’s a second career, but most people are taller than Lydia. She taps her foot and waits. “You think you’re something special, because mommy and daddy think you’re smart and the boys at school can’t take their eyes off of you? You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into here.”

“Fine,” says Lydia. “Then poke holes in my plan when I’m done presenting it. Better yet, give us yours. When. I’m. Finished.”

Lydia counts in her head, while Derek looms and glares and wavers, _one, two, three, four..._ He looks as though he’d really like to shove her into the chart-covered wall behind her, but he’s just slightly too culturally conditioned about hitting a girl. Instead, he stalks away, leans against the wall with folded arms instead of sitting back down on the couch, leaves Jackson looking lost and very alone, sitting there all by himself.

Lydia ignores him. If all goes well, this plan will save Jackson’s life, so she can worry about accepting his thanks later.

“As far as we can tell, the Argent pack has kept the same five core members ever since Allison was born,” she says. “They don’t mind losing other betas, but if it comes down to making a stand against an insurmountable foe, they’ll run rather than fight. We may not be an insurmountable foe, but there’s no reason we can’t appear to be one. Derek has his own reasons for not calling in help, which I’m sure are very important, but they don’t know that. If we hit them with a series of rapid, heavy-force attacks, combined with the implication that a much larger hunter force is coming or already here, without allowing them time to react or regroup in any material way, there’s a very good chance we’ll flush them out of Beacon Hills altogether.”

“So, _why_ didn’t we just do that in the first place?” Jackson asks.

“Because,” Derek says grimly. “That means they _get away_.”

“You’ve never actually been hunting, have you?” Lydia asks. “The kind you do with a trained dog and a license, I mean, not the kind that could get you twelve consecutive life sentences if anybody ever tracked your body count. You don’t shoot the birds in the bush. You flush them out, and then pick them all off as they run.”

“Birds don’t run,” says Jackson, which isn’t even true if you’re talking about quail or certain partridges, let alone non-game birds like ostriches and emus, but it’s hardly the point.

“It still won’t work,” Derek says. “If we kill any of his family members, Gerard Argent won’t even think about leaving Beacon Hills until we’re all dead, and we don’t have the numbers to take them in an all-out war.”

“Well, then, we’ll just need to design a shock and awe campaign that doesn’t kill any of them until they’re already on their way, won’t we?” says Lydia. “I don’t think it’s beyond our collective powers to engineer a few high-speed car accidents on some of the roads leading out of town. And the crash may not kill them, but a few snipers on a grassy knoll overlooking the highway, while they’re too injured to run, certainly can.”

Jackson is gaping at her. It does all sound a bit, well... _US Marine Corps_ , but if this is the situation she finds herself faced with, then she doesn’t see all that much of a choice. Lydia doesn’t particularly _like_ violence, but if she’s going to engage in it, well, it had better be swift, inescapable, and done _right_. She’s read Sun Tzu just like everybody else. She knows her Roman history. She follows current events. This is a military engagement. Time to think like the military.

And, all right, she’s been curious about that grenade launcher Derek has tucked away in one of his weapons stashes. How often does a girl get to play with a grenade launcher? She just wants to try it once.

“And if you’re wrong?” Derek asks. “What happens when they split up, and we don’t get them all on the road heading out of town?”

“Well, obviously we’ll keep watch on multiple routes, but even if we only get three or four of them, it shouldn’t matter,” Lydia says. “I doubt the remaining werewolves would be much danger if we let them go. Of course, you won’t settle for anything less than total annihilation,” _boys_ , “but just like you pointed out, the survivors won’t leave if they’re trying to get revenge for their family. Only then we’ll have the upper hand and superior numbers them, and they won’t have much of a chance at all, will they?”

It’s been a very interesting experience, convincing herself that she’s this bloodthirsty. Generally speaking, Lydia would consider herself a reasonably nice person. But, well, she’s hunting werewolves now. She can be the screaming girl in a horror movie, or she can be an action hero.

Lydia isn’t particularly well-suited to being an action hero--terrible fashion choices, for one--but she knows how to read the writing on the wall. “I think you can do this for me, boys,” she says. “Don’t you?”

 

Kate...for someone as willing as she is to put up with Stiles’ babbling, she doesn’t like questions much.

It’s okay. He’s picking up on what she likes and doesn’t like pretty quickly. She likes it when he talks ( _”C’mon, Chatterbox, all out of things to say? You? Never thought it could happen, but if you’re all done...”_ ), but not while they’re having sex ( _”Sweetie, the babble is cute, not sexy. What did I tell you about leaving the dirty talk to somebody who knows what they’re doing? Let’s put that mouth of yours to better use.”_ ) She likes Allison, and hanging out with Allison, and teasing Scott, and she doesn’t mind hanging out all four of them together, but she doesn’t like it when Stiles suggests that maybe they could plan to do something. She doesn’t really like it much when Stiles suggests _plans_. She doesn’t much like giving orders, except in bed, but she _hates_ being told what to do.

Not that Stiles ever would. Ever. He is a lucky guy being given the opportunity to sleep with a beautiful older woman who might actually be more terrifying, all put together, than Lydia Martin. You don’t tell people like that what to do. You get out of their line of fire and hope that they notice you. Kate _notices_ him now. It’s still the most confusing thing that’s ever happened in Stiles’ life, but he’s not about to go fighting it.

And Kate and her family don’t really seem to like it when Stiles hangs around too long, or asks too many questions, or starts wanting to know what they’ve learned about this house and the Hale family legacy, so okay. He can get the message. Ordinarily so long as it got him his answers he wouldn’t _care_ , but Kate’s got this look, this...withering kind of look, worse than any of Lydia’s, that makes Stiles feel every inch _sixteen_ sitting next to her. It’s better to avoid that look.

Of course that doesn’t mean he stops looking into any of it, because obsession is obsession, and those historical Hales were _cool_. It does sort of make him want to know more about the Argent family and their obvious truckload of secrets, but hey, one thing at a time. For now, Stiles is keeping his cool, keeping his head down, and just not going to mention to Kate that he sometimes spends an afternoon or two on his computer, or at the library, or even finding his way to the Beacon Hills Historical Society.

It’s lucky that Harris is dead, really, because with all the time he’s been spending with Kate Stiles wouldn’t have a chance to get half of this shit done, if he actually had to worry about his chem grades. But it’s looking like they’ll have a sub right through the end of the year, and the sub’s undergraduate degree was apparently in psychology. Not a whole lot of hard science learning going on in this classroom right now.

Look, Stiles isn’t _stupid_. Easily distracted, yeah, sure, but somewhere inside the mind that races around like a pinball machine on speed is a reasonably-sized fuckload of analytical thinking skills and a fairly impressive IQ. Buried in the endless pile of tests and forms from his first psychiatrist he’s totally got a paper that proves it, too. He knows there’s something up with Kate, with the whole Argent family. He doesn’t know if it’s _bad_. He’d really kinda rather find out that it’s _not_ bad, so he can keep on going up to the old house and making Kate smile, the way she does _at him_ , like he’s actually smart and funny and all those other things that he’d really like her to think he is. And maybe if he figures it out on his own, it’ll help prove to Kate that he’s _not_ a little kid. Prove to Scott that Stiles can handle himself, that there’s nothing to worry about. Prove to himself that he has any fucking clue what’s going on in his own life.

He doesn’t even know _why_ it all seems to hang together, just that there’s this certainty, deep in his gut, that it totally does. The Argents and the Hales, Beacon Hills in 1873 and Beacon Hills now, guys who weren’t afraid to hunt rabid bears and guys who headed on down south to bust up highway bandits and mafia bootleggers, secrets and horror fiction and too many people who never seem to stay in the same place. The Hales come back just as the Argents show up, and Laura Hale is dead, and it seemed like a soap opera at first but something is going on, and Stiles is going to figure out what.

Big-game hunters down through the Rockies, and rabid bears and unprecedented mountain lion attacks in broad daylight. There’s a link. There’s got to be.

Stiles rubs his hands over his face, opens a new tab to Google, and types in _large predators california_. It’s only 12:30 at night, he doesn’t need to be at school for another eight and a half hours. He’s got this. He’s totally got this down.

 

It’s been a while since Derek’s worked with someone with the balls to walk into somebody else’s job and take it over. Say what you want about Jackson, and Derek certainly will, but his taste in women is definitely _something_.

Lydia is brash, arrogant, inexperienced, a lifelong civilian and not even _sixteen_ , but she still has Derek gritting his teeth and doing nearly everything she tells him, because Lydia’s not like Jackson, or even like Derek. Lydia’s no common soldier. She’s a general, born and not made, and she has the presence of mind and organizational prowess to sweep everything along in her path.

It’s been three days since she unveiled her plan, and already the tenants on either side of Derek’s apartment have broken their short-term leases and moved out without much more than a day’s notice. Lydia wants to give it another day or two before they sign up the new rentals, to make sure the Argents don’t have enough time to see through their illusion before the full moon, but Derek’s already got permission to lend Nathan Zimmerman’s name and credit score to the cause. He’ll rent the other one in Uncle Peter’s name. Derek’s been able to forge Peter’s signature for years. It’s the least his uncle can provide.

Meanwhile, he and Jackson have a job to do. Derek still half-suspects that Lydia’s read _The Hunger Games_ a few too many times, but she swears that if they hide the traps well enough, she can take care of the rest. So, here they are: a duffel bag full of crossbows and bolts, gloves for their hands and oils to make everything smell like oak sap and pine, a dozen little electronic gadgets that Derek can’t properly make heads or tails out of, and Derek, and Jackson. Not exactly Derek’s idea of a picture-perfect Sunday afternoon, but it will do.

Derek’s the one to pull them to a stop at the base of an old maple, a few yards from the slight disturbance of a werewolf trail. It’s harder to tell where a werewolf has passed than most things, and this forest is overwhelmed with deer, but the tracks are there if you know how to read them. Derek knows these woods. He’s been mapping every track and trail he’s found, every bent twig and stray pawprint for the past two months. Anyway these are Hale lands. Derek ran through here as a child. He’s paced this forest from end to end since Laura died, learning it all over again.

Only by day, of course. Even Derek’s not stupid enough to try to come out here at night.

The Argents haven’t been out to stop him during the day so far. Technically they haven’t got any right--the old property extends about seven acres into the forest, but the rest of the woods around here are public property, county forest preserve, and it wouldn’t do the Argents much good to start drawing police attention by trying to throw people off of land that isn’t theirs. Not that Derek’s harboring any great illusions of being able to fend off the collective force of the Argent pack if they do decide to come for him, day or night, Jackson at his side or not, but...they haven’t attacked yet. They have to be waiting for something. Derek’s not above taking advantage of the reprieve.

How the fuck should Derek know what they’re waiting for? They’re wolves. Crazed animals. Derek’s only a man, full of human culture and instincts and the morals not to go slaughtering innocent people for fun. He doesn’t have to understand werewolves to hunt them. They obviously didn’t need understanding when they killed Laura.

“Why are we stopping?” Jackson demands, though Derek notices he’s quick enough to lower his duffel bag to the ground. They’ve been out here for four hours so far. Derek gives it another two hours before their bags are empty, and three more of dragging Jackson this way and that through the undergrowth, until the whole forest stinks enough of their presence that nowhere is particularly suspicious.

Jackson will survive. Derek has the car keys.

“Pausing to admire the view.” They’re right near an innocuous-looking area where a deer path crosses a tiny streambed. Derek’s found signs of werewolves in this general area nearly two thirds of every time he’s been past here, and whether they’re following the stream or the deer trail, the wolves will have to pass that crossing.

“How do you know they’re even going to come this way?” Jackson demands. “We’ve been running around these woods all morning without any sign of them.” Derek grits his teeth and looks around for a likely thicket of branches.

“ _You_ haven’t seen any sign of them,” Derek says. “Some of us have been doing this for longer than a few weeks.”

“Are we actually going to do something here, or are we just stopping for no apparent reason, again?” asks Jackson. “Because I’m not carrying this bag all around the woods all day for you to stop and--” Derek has a hand over his mouth and an elbow in his windpipe before Jackson can go any further.

“Need I remind you that the Argents _aren’t human,_ ” Derek hisses. “We may not be able to hear them, but I guarantee you, if they’re _anywhere_ around this area of the forest, they can hear _you_.” He eases the hand off of Jackson’s mouth slowly.

“Then why are we even bothering?” Jackson hisses up at him. “Why go through all this trouble if they already know we’re here?”

“We patrol to keep them from using the lay of the land as a surprise to their advantage,” Derek repeats, just like his father always taught him.

The Argents probably aren’t anywhere nearby right now. If the any of the wolves get near enough to actually see Derek and Jackson laying these traps, the whole plan will be worthless, but Derek’s been a hunter for long enough that he’s started to grow a sixth sense for when he’s being watched. Of course, it doesn’t always help when the goddamned werewolves are fast enough to creep up before a human can even react to them, and there’s no guarantee that one of the Argents isn’t hiding in the foliage above their heads right now, stifling a laugh. Still, that’s the risk every hunter has to take. That doesn’t mean Jackson needs to go running his mouth about why they’re really out here today, when they could easily be within hearing range of a whole pack of werewolves and not even know it.

“Fine,” Jackson says grudgingly. Derek lets up and turns back to his own bag.

Lydia made them run through the installation process for her precious remote trigger half a dozen times before they left the apartment, so they can get the crossbow trap set up without having to talk to each other. Lydia’s off in Sacramento today with her friend Danny, picking up some kind of software or transmitters or more triggers, Derek doesn’t even pretend to understand. He knows how to wire the device to the crossbow, and Lydia’s demonstrated back in the apartment that it works, so that’s good enough for him.

He still needs to find a source for that C4 she wanted. Well, the full moon’s still a week and a half away. They have some time.

“When we kill them,” Jackson asks hesitantly, like he’s not sure if Derek’s about to slam him into another tree; Derek’s willing to wait until he can see where this question is going. “Do I have to kill the one who scratched me to break the link, or can it be anyone?”

The truth is that Derek has no fucking clue what kind of link Jackson may or may not have with the werewolf who killed Adrian Harris, or why the scratches on the back of his neck still aren’t healing. Killing the werewolf who scratched him is a shot in the dark at best. It’s hard to retain a psychic link with something dead.

“Why?” Derek asks, putting enough sarcasm into his tone to make sure he’ll avoid answering the question. “Still having nightmares?”

Jackson sneers back at him. “And if I am?” he asks.

“Then learn to suck it up,” Derek says. “We all have nightmares.”

Jackson doesn’t look comforted. Well, fine. Jackson’s bad dreams aren’t his problem. Derek’s got too many problems of his own.

 

The thing about research.

No, that’s not right. The thing about crackpot theories that make perfect sense at three in the morning and sound completely _insane_ by light of day...

Okay, but it’s not just the crackpot theories, either, is it? It’s the thing about _all_ Stiles’ theories, and ideas, and yeah, okay, all his research. It’s kind of the driving problem of Stiles’ whole entire life, and it’s that sooner or later, if he wants any of the crazy shit in his head to _matter_ , he has to actually take it out of his head and test it against the rest of the world. Which can have some... _variable_ results.

Right now, Stiles is stalling. He’s stalling so hard inside his own head that he’s surprised Kate hasn’t been mocking him mercilessly for the past five minutes about how she can smell the cogs in his brain burning. Of course, when he’s wrong about this, she’s going to laugh at him anyway...

“So hey, what are you doing next Wednesday night?” Stiles’ mouth says with absolutely no authorization from his brain. Kate is gloriously, terrifyingly naked, standing in the middle of the room like it’s nothing at all, and Stiles still isn’t entirely convinced he’s allowed to _look_ at her like this. She got up to poke the fire that’s always going in her bedroom, and she hasn’t kicked Stiles out of bed yet, which has to be a good sign. Scott and Allison aren’t here tonight to give Stiles an excuse to stay. They’re off at Lydia Martin’s fabulous birthday shindig.

Lydia Martin is sixteen, and instead of beating down her door, Stiles is here in bed with Kate. Funny how these things end up sometimes.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Kate says over her shoulder, with a smile like she doesn’t care to be sorry at all. “Busy that night. Maybe you should plan a little boys’ night with Scott.”

“Oh, he’ll probably be with Allison,” Stiles says. He can actually feel the nervous adrenaline kicking his heart rate up, and he wonders, just for a fleeting moment, whether Kate can hear it.

“She’ll be busy, too,” Kate says. “Family thing.”

“Because of the full moon?” Stiles says, as casually as he can, which is really not very casually at all. He watches her, though.

Kate goes stiff. Just for a second, just a split instant before she’s moving again, just as smoothly as ever, sauntering back over to the bed with her eyebrows raised. “Now why would you say a thing like that?” she asks. Stops at the foot of the bed, one hand resting on the bedpost, still really naked in a way that keeps making Stiles uncomfortably aware that he’s only wearing a sheet. This was such a bad idea.

“Well, it goes with the whole werewolf thing, right?” Stiles asks. When in doubt, babble. “I couldn’t help but notice the last time you and Allison both had a family thing, it was the last full moon, and I did some checking and compared like six different calendars, and realized that the full moon before that fell on the same day that Scott and Allison had sex for the first time and then she took off before it was even nighttime. Do not ask me why I know that, Scott has no boundaries when it comes to TMI, I’ve mostly been trying to forget what he says. But sometimes it comes in handy.”

“Oh really?” Kate asks, and he really can’t tell if she’s amused or not, but he’s going now, and it’s not like he’s completely without evidence. He _has_ evidence. It just all sounds crazy, even to him.

“Which could all be totally coincidental, until you factor in the weird nomadic lifestyle, and the secrecy, which I _totally_ wasn’t trying to pry into, and all the Hale stuff, which I _was_ trying to pry into, but I figured it didn’t really matter since aside from the one living in town right now, they’re all dead. But they pretty much come off as a bunch of rich eccentric crazies with a thing for guns and hunting wolves and bears and mountain lions in places where none of those things are even supposed to live, unless you take way too much Adderall and stay up until four in the morning for three days straight, and also happen to notice things like full moons in passing, and _then_ you realize that if you take all of Samantha Hale’s novels as if they’re based in actual fact, everything about the Hale family starts to make sense, _including_ the fact that one of them moved here right after a bunch of people who always have secret family gatherings on full moons bought their old house.” Stiles takes a breath. The longer he keeps talking, the longer it is until Kate can tell him how ridiculous he is, or alternatively, tell him he’s _actually right_. She’s still smiling, but on Kate that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s happy. She...doesn’t really look all that happy right now.

“That’s one hell of a theory you’ve got there, Chatterbox,” Kate says. “What were you expecting, I’d just come right out and tell you, _yeah, you got it right_?” She waves a hand, enough sarcasm in one gesture that Stiles finds himself shrinking back against the headboard a little. “You sure you want to push this one?”

“I’m really not good with not-knowing things,” Stiles says. “Like, I’m sorry, I really don’t want to pry into your secrets, you’ve been really, _really_ nice to me,” her boobs are just _hanging_ there, why is Stiles doing this, why would he ruin a good thing with his stupid mouth, “but I’m kind of constitutionally compelled to ask questions. And look things up. And push.” At least she looks more amused, now, if he squints. “Sorry?”

She nods, like what he’s saying makes some kind of sense, or at least like she’s accepting his apology. “So, if we really are werewolves,” Kate says, and her mouth twists around the word like a private joke, “then we’d be the ones responsible for that chemistry teacher of yours, too, right? Did you think that maybe letting on that you know the secret of a bunch of ravenous, murdering wolf-beasts could get you into just a little bit of trouble?”

“Um,” Stiles says. “You know, I really didn’t think that one through.” He’s also really, really not sure whether Kate is fucking with him or she just confessed to being a homicidal wolf-beast, but if this whole idea is crazy, he would really like a straight answer so he can stop worrying about it _now_.

“No, you didn’t.” Kate drops down, finally, onto the bed, slinks up towards him on all fours, just as predatory as any wolf he’s ever seen on Animal Planet, until she’s poised right over him, just inches away. Stiles slips a little lower down the bed. “So here’s the question you’ve got to ask yourself, now. Now that you’re thinking about it, are you going to just accept the fact that you’ve got a gorgeous, sexy older lover who’s been showing you things you never even dreamed of, and stop asking questions...or are you going to turn right around as soon as you go home and start researching even more?”

“I _really_ wish I could tell you I’d just let this drop,” Stiles says truthfully. “Like, really, really, really, you have no idea how much.” Kate’s basically admitted that there’s something to find out, though, and Stiles knows how his brain gets when it fixates. He is going to regret this so much.

Kate’s eyes flash pure, brilliant gold. “Thought so,” she says. “Too smart for your own good, that’s why I like you, Chatterbox.” The fingertips that stroke gently over Stiles’ cheek have inch-long claws.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and oh god, there is a gorgeous naked woman who is also a _werewolf_ literally on top of him, Stiles has never known the true collision of awe and terror until this moment. “Holy fuck, you’re a--”

She kisses him. Deep, wet, filthy enough to make him _groan_ , and he tries to kiss back, to make it good, runs his tongue over her teeth and oh _god_ those are fangs. There are so many conflicting impulses running through his head right now that Stiles is pretty sure his brain just plain short-circuits by the time Kate pulls away.

“So what are we going to do about this now?” she asks, while Stiles pants for air.

“You killed Harris,” is what slips out of his mouth, probably because of the aforementioned short-circuited brain problem. Kate smiles her most satisfied smile.

“I did,” she says, not _we did_ or anything like that, _Kate_ did it. Herself. Stiles is in bed with a murderer. “You gonna tell on me?”

“I...” There is no way he can coherently answer that question, especially since his fucking dick seems to have decided that if Kate’s getting this up close and personal, it’s totally time to get interested for round two. It’s been _ten minutes_. Kate just confessed to _murder_. Later, Stiles is going to have to have a very stern conversation with his penis about the concept of _time and place_.

“I love my family, Stiles,” she says. “My dad, my older brother, _Allison_ \--they’re all I’ve got. You understand, right? Wouldn’t you kill, to protect your dad? To protect Scott?”

“I...would try not to,” Stiles manages. Kate pulls away. He doesn’t even try to hide his deep breath of relief.

She doesn’t go far, just rolls off to lay out on her side next to him, head propped up on one hand, elbow resting on the pillow. “Your research tell you what happened to all the wolves in California, sugar?” Kate asks. “You know, my mom used to be alpha of this pack? Guess how long ago she died.”

“I really don’t want to,” Stiles says, and Kate smiles, and says, “I was eight.”

“Oh,” says Stiles. “How--” He stops himself. That’s a question he knows too well and not one he wants to, _gets_ to ask, but Kate picks it up anyway.

“Violently,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, automatically, the thing you’re supposed to say there. The thing Kate’s probably heard a million times in the past twenty years.

“I won’t see anyone else in my family be killed,” Kate says. “No matter what. If I’m in a situation where I know somebody might blow our cover, I’ll do whatever I have to in order to protect my family, up to and including staging a convenient ‘mountain lion attack.’” She raises her right hand, holds it between their faces, examining the inch-long claws that have sprouted from her nails. “Just like you want to protect your father. Right?”

Stiles is really, really certain he’s being threatened right now. It’s just...it makes _sense_ , when she puts it that way, right? “Protection for everyone,” he says, with forced lightness. “Nobody tells any secrets, and nobody dies violently in any way, and Allison tells Scott whenever she wants to get around to it, and everybody’s happy. Right?”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Kate says. “I like you, Stiles. Don’t make me regret putting you in this position, okay?”

Stiles can’t actually remember Kate ever using his actual name before. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it,” Kate warns. Stiles swallows.

“I know,” he says. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Good.” In an instant, Kate’s rolling back over, flattening herself on top of him, no longer hanging suspended but now pressed right up resting most of her weight along his body, thighs and hips and chests all in line, only one thin sheet between them. “We’ve still got a good hour and a half before the lovebirds get home,” she says. “How about I show you some of the _fun_ things you can do with the claws?”

Kate runs the tips of them over Stiles’ cheek, down his neck, over his collarbone, sharp little pinpricks just short of piercing the skin. She leans down until her mouth is just brushing his ear and adds, just above a whisper, “I saw you thinking about it.”

The last time Kate dug her regular fingernails into his back, Stiles came hard enough to see stars, and okay, maybe he has just a tiny bit of a pain kink. One that he may or may not have picked up from Kate and how much she seems to get off on him getting off on, say, her teeth in his shoulder, it’s kind of hard to tell, usually he’s not thinking very much at the time. Those claws are scary weapons capable of murder, but it’s a whole different kind of shiver that runs through him when Kate slides her mouth down to lick his jaw, drags her claws down across his chest, scratching just hard enough to trail thin red lines in their wake.

Sex now. Coherent thought is clearly a subject for much, much later.

 

Lydia’s sixteenth birthday is in five days. Coincidentally, so is the full moon.

The full moon _shouldn’t_ mean a thing to her. At most, it should be a perfect romantic backdrop to the perfect sweet sixteen party, hanging overhead while party guests drink and mingle and splash around in the pool outside. Lydia shouldn’t even know it was there, except to glance up and accept it like a pretty, well-deserved present from Mother Nature to grace her special day.

Unfortunately, instead of an episode of _My Super Sweet Sixteen_ , Lydia is apparently going to spend her night living out some horrible cross between a military movie and an episode of _Supernatural_. Well. Fine. Lydia doesn’t need to fall prey to society’s insistence on attaching unnecessary meaning to arbitrary milestones. Obviously it’s more important to deal with the Argents before anybody else dies. She doesn’t care.

Derek and Jackson got the last of the traps into place yesterday, and the transmitters they planted are relaying an endless string of hidden camera footage and sensor data to the computer system at the apartments. They’ve been moving Derek’s stockpile of ammunition back and forth across Beacon Hills all week, and they officially took possession of their two decoy apartments last Tuesday. The werewolves are well aware that something is up. The plan is firmly in place. It’s Friday night. So Lydia is just going to have to throw her birthday party a few days early.

The stars are up, the moon is out, and the house and backyard are packed with laughing, flirting teenagers, every last one of them here to celebrate the birth of Lydia Martin. Lydia is radiant. She spent an hour and a half on her hair before the first guests arrived. It’s the longest she’s spent on herself without getting distracted worrying about werewolves since she first met Derek Hale, and it’s her birthday present to herself.

In fact, she’s not supposed to be thinking of him at all, certainly not when the punch table obviously needs tending to. Lydia busies herself with ladling out more cups of raspberry sherbert punch and scans the nearby crowd for a suitable distraction.

Jackson’s here, even though Lydia would have been well within her ex-girlfriend rights to throw him out as soon as he showed up at the door. He didn’t even bother to bring her a present, though he did supply the party with plenty of top-label booze. Lydia won’t be taking him back any time soon.

She’s actually spent all week half-expecting to catch Jackson with his tongue down some cheerleader’s throat tonight, somewhere just ostentatiously public enough to make sure Lydia will see. It takes her a minute to spot him over with Danny, talking to Matt Daehler, bottle of vodka held loosely in one hand. Jackson doesn’t usually cockblock Danny like that, but that bottle’s ¾ empty; Lydia doubts Jackson even remembers Danny’s little crush right now, let alone gives a damn about enabling it. Well, fine. Maybe if Jackson drinks enough tonight, he’ll actually sleep for once. He can be Danny’s problem right now.

It’s a good party. People are having fun. Lydia knows almost everybody here personally, aside from the stray plus-ones. There’s Jessica Edwards and Carrie Rosenthal, Lydia could go over and spend the next half hour talking about sheer fabrics and walking the line between ‘stylish’ and ‘trashy’. There’s Melody Grier sucking face with Dominic Pearson, a senior, how _scandalous_. Aaron Greenberg keeps threatening to jump into the pool in hopes somebody will actually pay attention to him. _How_ did he make the guest list again?

There’s Scott McCall, loitering over by the staircase. No Stiles. Lydia wonders if he’s at the Argent house tonight. She never would’ve wanted some benchwarming nobody at her birthday party before she started stalking his girlfriend’s family, so she hadn’t bothered to invite him at all, and as far as she knows he hasn’t crashed. Of course, she hadn’t invited Scott McCall, either, but he’s a legitimate plus-one.

And he’s alone. Scott McCall is looking around the room, every bit the awkward loser that he is, and he’s _alone_. Lydia’s heartbeat ratchets up slightly, but she picks up the next empty cup with hands as steady as if she were mixing explosives.

“Can I get two of those?” Lydia will _not_ admit to jumping. Allison Argent is less than an arm’s length away. Now is not the time to let on to fear.

“Of course.” Lydia meets Allison’s friendly smile with her most perfect happy hostess face, lips curved back and just showing her teeth. “I’m so glad you could make it! Are you having a good time?”

“Yeah, it’s really great. Thanks again for inviting me.” Allison’s very, very good at ‘sincere’. She might be better than Lydia, but Lydia’s not about to admit that, either.

They’re almost friends now. Lydia’s managed to casually work her way into sitting at Allison’s table at lunch three times in the past week. By this time next Saturday, Allison’s entire family will be on the run if not dead.

It makes Lydia’s stomach churn a little to think about it, so she smiles harder and picks up two glasses of punch to pass across the table. Allison’s nostrils twitch. Lydia oiled her gun this afternoon, the one that Derek gave her, and she’s only washed her hands often enough for the scent to escape human senses since then.

“You’d better get back over there and entertain your boyfriend before somebody else snaps him up,” Lydia says, leaning across the drinks table with a conspiratorial little grin.

“Thanks,” says Allison.

“Of course,” Lydia brushes her off magnanimously. “Any time.”

 

Saturday. Four days until the full moon.

They’ve been evaluating Scott for more than a month. It’s time for the Alpha to make a choice.

The lacrosse team is long out of the playoffs, so there’s just practice today, Scott down by the high school for hours and Allison without any good excuse to go and watch. Allison fidgets and frets and paces around her bedroom until Kate grabs her by the wrist and tugs her out for a run in the woods that lasts hours.

She ought to be better at waiting, more able to keep still. But within the next few days Grandfather is going to make his decision, and Allison doesn’t _know_. She doesn’t know what his answer is going to be. What she’s going to do, if the answer is ‘no’.

She can’t. If it comes down to a choice. She _can’t_.

If it comes down to a choice and Allison looks like she might choose Scott, even for a moment, Grandfather will make her kill him herself. It’s the pack first. Family over all. Allison knows, she knows, but it doesn’t have to be a conflict. Not if Scott just takes the bite. If he stops having wheezing attacks and derailing the whole gym class just from trying to climb a wall, if he can run with her, he can _be_ family.

He’s human. He’s so _kind_ , and that’s not human at all, but it’s not really werewolf either. He’s _Scott_ , and he’s never seen anybody die, never killed so much as a rabbit.

He’ll do anything for her, he promises, and maybe, maybe if Allison hopes hard enough, that will be enough.

 

Sunday. Three days until the full moon.

“How well do you know Allison?” Stiles asks, across a table covered in pizza and spread-out textbooks.

“What?” Scott asks. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A random one,” says Stiles. “Just answer it.”

“Better than almost anybody on Earth,” Scott admits. Scott knows he loves her, and she loves him back. Sometimes these days, it feels like that’s the _only_ thing he knows.

He used to think he knew Stiles, but with the whole Kate thing...Scott knows Stiles hasn’t told anybody else, knows Stiles thinks this somehow isn’t a problem but that he refuses to let the sheriff know anything about it, no matter what. Scott has no idea _why_ Stiles thinks this is a good idea. He really doesn’t know why Allison’s aunt Kate thinks this is a good idea. He doesn’t know much about her at all.

Scott kind of thinks he might know why Stiles stopped going on about Lydia Martin, even though she just broke up with Jackson, but he doesn’t know why Lydia Martin seems distracted all the time. He hasn’t figured out why Lydia and Allison smile at each other like they’re pretending to be friends and kind of want the other person to die. He doesn’t know why Jackson shows up to practice with all those bruises Scott always sees in the locker room, or how Jackson’s gotten even faster and more brutal on the field lately.

He doesn’t know almost anything about Allison’s family. Allison says they’ve kept moving because her family loves to travel, because her dad’s business is web-based and he could work anywhere, but she hasn’t said where, or what it’s been like, not really. Scott knows that Allison’s grandfather _watches_ him, it feels like all the time when they’re in the same room together, but he doesn’t know why. He just knows it makes the skin on the back of his neck crawl.

Every time Scott turns around lately, it feels like somebody else is keeping something from him. He doesn’t know why Stiles has been jumpy all over the place since Friday night. He doesn’t know where the hell Jackson was for practice yesterday. He doesn’t know why Allison sometimes asks him those weird questions about what he’d be willing to do for her, or why she can’t keep their standing Wednesday night homework date this week, and he doesn’t know how to reduce the square root of 97 into an answer the teacher might be willing to accept. _Ugh_.

“I know I’m in love with her,” Scott says.

Allison can read him like nobody else. Every time Scott starts to get really sick of the idea that basically everybody he talks to is keeping _something_ from him, she’ll grab his hand and squeeze it. Every single time, it makes him feel better. He _knows_ that feeling. It might be the only thing that matters in the world.

 

Monday. Two days until the full moon.

Jackson is home again tonight. If this keeps up, not only is Kate not going to have any useful intelligence to bring back to her father, but she’s going to end up bored with stalking Jackson before she even gets around to breaking him properly.

Info would be good. It might help redeem her a little from the other night’s little reveal session with Stiles. Not that Stiles is actually any kind of _threat_ , but she hadn’t technically cleared telling him about werewolves before Friday. Chris got a little tetchy, and her Father...isn’t thrilled.

It’ll be fine. Kate knows men. Kate knows _boys_ , old and young, needy and lonely. She knows the art of mixing fear and lust, and part of knowing how to take control is knowing what you _can’t_ control. Stiles is more curious than a cat, and oh, it’ll get him killed somewhere within the next month or two, but in the mean time, keeping secrets would just give him that much more time to come to his own conclusions. They didn’t need that. Even big brother Chris knows the family didn’t need that.

Kate will be forgiven. She knows what she’s doing; if her Father didn’t believe that, she’d be dead already. Give it until after the full moon. It’s been too long in Beacon Hills without a real hunt. By the time the sun rises Thursday morning, they’ll all be blood-smeared and sated, more satisfied, less on edge. It’s all because those damned hunters haven’t _done_ anything yet. When Kate’s Father plans on a good hunt, he always comes through, and she’s not doubting him. This isn’t the longest he’s ever made them wait.

Kate can be patient. The full moon always comes around again eventually.

 

Tuesday. One day until the full moon.

Allison smiles at him in first period, and Stiles skips lunch to work on a fake extra credit project he makes up on the spot in the library. He’s got too many things to think about, too many questions still left unanswered.

The thing is, Kate _knows_ Stiles, by now. She listens. She _gets him_ , laughs at his jokes, never looks at him sideways when he says something maybe a little bit sketchy or immoral. She listens to him like nobody, not even Scott, ever has before. Which means that of course as soon as Stiles said the word ‘werewolf’, Kate must have realized that he never would have stopped until he’d found all his own answers, his way. But the _problem_ is, it’s not enough. Not quite.

It took until about midway through Saturday before the doubts started creeping in. Stiles spent most of Friday night in a fog of lust and sometime-terror, interspersed with the occasional bolt of sheer _WTF_. It was a little hard to get over the initial _holy crap, werewolves_ , while Kate was doing _that_ with her tongue, or, oh god, those claws. And she’s awesome, and gorgeous, and 28, and wants _him_ , and it’s all way too good to be true, and the thing is that Stiles is maybe, a little bit, on the edge of falling completely in love with her. And the thing is that on Friday, Stiles is 95% sure she threatened to kill him and his father without even blinking.

It’s not that he doesn’t get _why_. This would be easier, would make way more sense, if Stiles didn’t get why, but he does, he really does. Stiles would kill for Scott or his dad, if he really needed to. The part that stops him is the part where he can’t remember whether or not Kate actually seemed regretful when she was saying it.

There’s one other thing he _can_ remember, somehow, through the fog of that conversation, one particular, needling little thing. Kate said she’d kill to keep her family safe. She didn’t say what Mr. Harris was doing to put them in danger.

So. Good werewolves or monster werewolves. _Wolfman_ or _Twilight_. Stiles can’t tell Scott until he knows. He promised Kate he wouldn’t tell Scott _anything_. Scott keeps following Allison around with those eyes like he’s the Twilight werewolf and she’s Bella Swan instead of some ravening beast that could probably rip Scott’s throat out with her own teeth, if she wanted, and Stiles can’t keep this from him forever. It’s hard enough keeping this from him at all.

Well, tomorrow’s the full moon. If there’s ever a time to tell the difference, that’s it. Stiles can just...wait until the middle of the night, drive out to the Argent place, and wait in his Jeep. He’ll grab a silver candlestick. If anything tries to kill him...well, hopefully he’ll have time to gun it out of there before they do. At least he’ll know.

 

On Tuesday night, Victoria cooks roast beef and red-skinned potatoes, steamed broccoli and a pie for dessert. Family dinner is important.

“So,” says the alpha, jovial in his spot at the head of the table. “We have a decision to make. Isn’t that right, Allison?”

Victoria watches her daughter, surreptitiously, over the roast. Allison will say the right things. They’ve trained her well enough for that.

Victoria doesn’t like the boy. He’s an unshielded walking lump of human-shaped weakness, and he brings out Allison’s every vulnerability. He won’t survive this pack. He’ll weaken them all. He’ll weaken _Allison_ , and that’s not an acceptable effect for him to have.

The alpha’s word, however, is final. Victoria watches, and waits.

Allison straightens her back. She lifts her head, though not enough to meet the alpha’s eyes. She’s not sitting like a supplicant, and Victoria would slap her into a meeker posture, if she could. Allison _knows_ how to beg favors from the alpha. She’s sitting like Kate would, to try and bargain. Victoria’s been wary of that bitch’s influence for a very long time.

Well, let Allison see what happens when she tries to approach the alpha like an adult. She needs to learn what the consequences of her actions are sooner or later, and if the alpha takes this as a reason not to turn the boy, so much the better.

“He’s loyal,” Allison says. “He loves me. He’ll follow you if you turn him, I know he will.”

“You’re sure about that?” the alpha asks. “What about his other friends? Family? If he’s that loyal, won’t he want to stay with the ones he’s known longer?”

“He doesn’t have a lot of friends,” Allison says, still firmly, and Victoria must give her points for holding fast. The alpha doesn’t reward those who start strong and then immediately back down. He approves of conviction. “He has Stiles, and his mom. Kate already said she was going to kill Stiles--” She breaks her pose to glance left and right, Kate and then Chris, looking for confirmation.

“He’s a security risk,” Chris confirms. “No matter what happens with Scott, Stiles won’t be left alive.”

“And you think this boyfriend of yours will be so eager to join the pack that slaughtered his best friend?” the alpha asks mildly. Allison glances up, then back down, lowering her eyes to the table. As they should have been in the first place. Victoria’s taught her better than this.

“He loves me,” she repeats, stubborn girl. “If he sees that we had no choice--I can convince him to come, I know I can,” Allison says.

“And what if you’re wrong?” asks the alpha. “What do we do if his actions bring hunters down on us, in numbers greater than this pack has seen in years? What do we do if he reveals our secret to the police, or worse? Are you willing to be the one that cuts his throat?” Allison swallows.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

“And you’ll vouch for him?” he continues, in his implacable alpha rumble. “You’ll take responsibility for his actions, you personally, for everything he does, no matter what? You’ll let the weight of it fall on your shoulders.”

Allison’s shoulders have been hunching inward, little by little, but she hasn’t said _no_. She knows what form the alpha’s justice takes towards his betas, when they fail. Does she think that being family will save her throat, if she willingly stands in the boy’s place? She toys with the handle of her knife, and Victoria knows, with all certainty, that she’s about to _agree_.

“ _Allison_ ,” Victoria hisses, more sharply than she ought to dare, and Allison’s eyes shoot up towards her. Victoria can feel the heat of the alpha’s stare. Well, she’ll pay for what she must, so long as Allison isn’t letting her first true love blind her into agreeing to suffer the punishment for the actions of some idiotic sixteen-year-old _boy_.

“Your mother has a point, Allison,” the alpha says. “That’s a promise you should think about long and hard before you agree to it. Our pack works because each member is accountable of his or her own actions, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Allison says to a point somewhere in the middle of the dining room table.

“I have to wonder why you’d agree to something like that at all,” the alpha continues. “Knowing that most new betas only join the pack for a short while, and even those we all agree to trust may not be trustworthy in the end. Tell me, Allison, are you in love with him?”

Allison’s heart is pounding. Deliberately, calmly, Victoria slices off a piece of roast beef and eats it, with perfect precision and poise. Kate has started in on her third glass of wine, as though she can feel it. Chris isn’t bothering to pretend not to watch. Chris may make decisions like that.

“Yes, sir,” Allison finally says, even more quietly, and if Victoria’s grip involuntarily tightens on the handle of her fork and knife, well, she has enough replacement flatware that nobody will ever need see the bent ones.

“Now, I’m not some old codger who doesn’t believe in young love,” says the alpha. “I remember being your age, once. I think it’s a beautiful thing.” It’s his kind tone, but there’s anticipation in it; the bite is coming. Victoria waits. “But Allison,” the alpha says, and there it is, the iron snap, Allison ducks her head until her chin is almost at her chest. “Don’t ever let it blind you into thinking that you know what’s best for the pack, do you understand? You’re still the youngest one here. Oh, you may think that a few hunts and a little spy work equip you to know what this pack needs,” he sneers. “but I have to tell you, young lady, you’re so far from understanding the truth of the world that I’m not sure you’ll ever be ready to take up the burden of leading this pack. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Allison says. “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” says the alpha. “Now, if it’s a question of my beloved only granddaughter, begging a favor from her grandfather, which he may see fit to grant out of the kindness of his heart, that’s a completely different story from the sixteen-year-old beta who thinks she can guarantee who will make a good addition to this pack and who won’t. So, why don’t we start again?”

 

And then it’s the day of the full moon.

Jackson’s back at school. Allison’s not. Stiles doesn’t notice the first but thanks luck for the second, because every time he thinks about tonight, his heart rate speeds up like a flashing _this is a STUPID FUCKING IDEA_ sign in bright neon letters. Of course, with no Allison around, Scott is back to asking questions, but Stiles can put those off at least for another day. For now.

Everything’s _humming_. Everything’s ready.

Dinner is early, pre-sundown. Lydia and Jackson squabble pointlessly about takeout, pizza or Chinese. Lydia wins by virtue of the argument that Chinese can be eaten with utensils and they can’t risk greasy fingerprints on the trigger buttons on Danny’s borrowed touchpad; Jackson orders egg rolls and spare ribs. Derek doesn’t eat at all. 

Stiles isn’t home from lacrosse practice early enough to win his own dinner argument on the grounds of, _do you know how much grease is in there?_ , so he and his dad split a pepperoni-and-mushrooms-do-not-actually-count-as-vegetables- _Dad_ before the sheriff heads off to his night shift.

Victoria sets out cold cuts and crackers, for now. They’ll eat on the run tonight.

Danny came through for them in a big way, and didn’t even withdraw his help when Jackson flat-out refused to explain. Lydia’s sitting at the juncture of three networked computers, touchpad in hand, skipping back and forth between wireless feeds from a handful of tiny hidden security cameras and sensor data from more than a dozen different traps: leg snares and pitfalls with spikes at the bottom, but no aconite, half a dozen concealed crossbows rigged to pressure plates, and one medium-sized explosion. They’ve been thorough.

The sun goes down. The moon is full. Out on the wide lawn between the Argent house and the tree line, the still-human Alpha surveys his pack with glowing red eyes.

“Anything in the forest tonight is ours,” he says. “Kill anyone you find.”

The last wisp of cloud blows away from the moon, and the Alpha’s form ripples and stretches, growing long, lean, all muscle and fur. He growls at his pack with a wolf’s long snout, and they fall to all fours, claws and fangs and hair rippling out, turning them to beasts. The Alpha tilts his head back to the moon and _howls_.

Stiles hears it all the way on the edge of the forest, safe inside the steel cage of his Jeep, and shivers. Yeah, okay, this is the single stupidest idea he’s ever had. But Kate is Kate, whatever that means to him, and Scott is _Scott_ , and Stiles has known what that means to him for a long damn time. And Scott loves Allison like she’s bright enough to be blinding, so Stiles doesn’t get the luxury of deciding _not to know_.

He starts the Jeep. 

Lydia watches her monitors impassively, Jackson leaning over her shoulder. Derek’s pacing over at the other end of the room, like a caged wolf himself. She’ll never make that comparison out loud.

“All right,” she says, fingers poised over one of her keyboards. “Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of statutory rape with threatening undertones. A couple of Argent family dinners, at least one of which could get a little triggery if you have particular issues with abusive families, control games, and family dinner.


	5. Chapter 4: Push the button and pull the plug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the moon is full and everything goes very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, extra warnings at the bottom of the chapter. Chapter title from 'Seconds', by U2.

Allison tears through the undergrowth, blood singing hot through her veins, hard-packed dirt beneath her palms, her bare feet. Her mother is up ahead and to the left, Kate by Allison’s shoulder, ready to nip or nudge her along if she falls, her father bringing up the rear, keeping them together, keeping them safe. In front: the Alpha. Brutal and streamlined as an actual wolf, massive before them, somehow dodging and scraping by between trees without even slowing down where even Allison, half his size, might have trouble. Of course he can. He’s the Alpha.

Just two more months, and Scott will be here with her, keeping up at her side, Allison the one to nip and to push if he slows down. Not next month--there are plans in place, for Scott’s first full moon--but the moon after that, in some strange new forest, in some new town, he’ll be here, hunting with them. Two months isn’t that long to wait.

The Alpha wheels sharply, headed for the cliffs over the riverbank, and a moment later Allison catches the scent of what’s changed his direction--the hot metal reek of a car, the smell of human flesh, lust-ridden pheromones. A pair of teenagers, probably, picking the worst possible night to come to the woods for a little privacy. It’s a warm night for March. They must have the windows open, if they’re even inside the car at all.

The full moon is spilling light all over the forest, all over Allison, and she’s _thirsty_ with it, needing to rip, to tear, wanting to taste _blood_. The Alpha gets first chance at a kill, and he never misses, but sometimes he’ll stand aside. He’s let her take deer in the past, and maybe, maybe...

The *twang* sounds tiny through the rustling of the forest, quiet and incongruous and inconsequential. The bolt takes Allison mid-stride, through the meat of her shoulder, before she even thinks to flinch.

“Hunters!” her father snaps, as Allison stumbles and sprawls on her face on the ground. The protruding end of the bolt catches against a rock and twists. The searing jab of pain makes her whimper. Kate’s already there, stroking her hair; a moment later, Allison’s mother’s hands are there on her neck, on her shoulder, turning her onto her back and holding her in place. Kate’s crouched low at Allison’s side for now, but Allison can hear the Alpha’s growl and instinctively strains against her mother’s hands to get up herself. Then Kate’s gone, off with the Alpha and Allison’s dad, while her mother grabs the shaft of the bolt. She tugs, slightly, and Allison can’t help the gasping whine that escapes her throat.

“It’s barbed,” says Allison’s mother. “You have to hold still for this, Allison. Do you need something to bite?”

If there are more hunters out there--Allison thinks of Lydia Martin, smelling of gun oil and smiling like she had a brand new secret--Allison can’t make enough noise to give their position away. She nods, then winces as the movement jars her shoulder.

Her mom’s hand settles on Allison’s forehead for just a moment, then disappears; a few seconds later, Allison hears something tearing. Her mom’s shirt. Allison’s only wearing a sports bra tonight, just like Kate. This is the first time she’s realized it might be useful to wear anything else.

Allison’s been hurt in training, by her dad or her mom or Aunt Kate or even, sometimes, by the Alpha. His long, deep scratches always take days to heal, and they _hurt_ , but not like this. Allison can feel her shoulder trying to close up around the arrow, feel the tip of it driving into her--

“Here,” her mother says, and presses a thick strip of folded-up cloth between Allison’s teeth. Leather would be better, Allison remembers the time her mother had to pull the remains of six bullets out of her father’s back in the attic of their house in Georgia, but this is what they have. She bites down gratefully.

Her mother’s claws slice like fire into the meat of Allison’s shoulder, and Allison’s teeth clench down hard on the desperate moan that’s trying to claw its way out. Her mother only has two hands, one to hold the bolt and one to cut, so she can’t spare one to hold Allison down. Allison digs her claws into the dirt, rolls her head back and holds every muscle she can as stiff and as steady as she ever has in her life, and desperately tries not to scream.

A moment later, her mother is pulling on the shaft again, yanking it free from Allison’s muscle. The barbed head catches on her collarbone on its way out, but Allison can only whimper.

Then it’s out. Allison’s whole upper arm and half her chest is smeared in her own blood, and there’s a gaping hole carved into her shoulder, but she can breathe again. She lays there, panting, feeling the bone-stabbing but somehow comforting pain of muscles trying to knit their way back together, until the rustling of dead leaves says the rest of the pack’s come back.

“It was a trap,” her father reports, and there’s more than the full moon behind the growl in his voice. “A crossbow hidden in the bushes.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison says, and it comes out more hoarsely than she expects. She coughs, tries again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see a tripwire.”

“There was no tripwire,” the Alpha says, and Allison shivers from the tone even though it’s not directed at her. “Chris and Kate have been down that trail three times in the past few days, and no humans have been here since at least Sunday. I don’t know how they set it up, but when I do...” The Alpha always leaves his worst threats unspoken.

“They’ve been active the past few days,” Allison’s dad reports.

Allison pushes herself up to a sitting position, shakes her mother’s hands off when they try to keep her down. It stretches her injured shoulder, makes her gasp, but she swallows most of the sound of it, and she can handle sitting upright right now. There’s too much going on, and she wants to be a part of this pack, not lying at their feet like somebody that only needs to be protected.

“So what do we do now?” she asks, glancing around at her pack. Her mother is still sitting on the ground, her dad and aunt Kate are crouching, but the Alpha is standing tall over all of them, dark and backlit against the night sky.

“They’re up to something,” the Alpha says. “All right, if the Hale boy wants to play ball, then I’d say it’s time to play.”

 

“This isn’t going to work,” Derek says. He turns away from the monitors and stalks back away towards the other side of the apartment; Jackson shoves off the back of Lydia’s chair and turns to glare at him.

“Uh, hello,” Jackson says. “We’re less than an hour into the night and we just shot Allison.”

“Yeah, and then she _got up and got better_ ,” Derek counters. “Werewolves do that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?” Lydia asks. Her fingers are still clacking furiously over one of the keyboards; Jackson doesn’t think she even bothered to turn around. “We’re trying to avoid spurring on a murderous rampage of vengeance, remember?”

Derek heaves a sigh, like it’s some big trial to have Lydia Martin constantly telling you how dumb you are and how much better she’d be at living your life than you. Jackson’s been putting up with that shit for years, and okay, it’s not cute, but as far as he can see? Lydia _is_ about twenty times better at this werewolf hunter stuff than Derek. Maybe Derek should learn something and get over it.

“Look at them,” Derek says, stalking back over to jab a finger at one of the screens. “They’re not running scared. They’re _hunting_. How long do you think it’s going to take them to realize that there aren’t any hunters in the woods tonight at all?”

“We’ve been over this,” Lydia says, still unimpressed, still typing. Jackson thinks she might be writing up her chemistry lab report in one of those many windows. “The traps have no obvious trigger mechanism, and even if they find the wired mechanical triggers, most of them look like they’re meant to be hit by remote control to within a few hundred yards. _Somebody_ had to be out in the forest setting them off.”

“Without laying down any fresh scent?” Derek asks. “Without ever coming after them in person?”

“You agreed to this plan, too,” Jackson points out. Lydia huffs an impatient sigh and finally shoves her rolling chair back from the desk.

“What do you want to do, Derek?” she asks. “Go out there yourself?”

“Yes,” says Derek, and Jackson has a sudden, stinging premonition that this is _not_ going to go well.

“Fine,” Lydia says, and turns back to her computers. “Jackson, go with him.”

“Do the words ‘hell, no’ make my response clear enough to you?” Jackson asks.

Lydia makes that infuriating little high-pitched “hm” sound of hers. “You’re the one who wanted to learn to kill werewolves,” she says. “I’m only here because of you, and you’re in my way. So, go kill some werewolves.”

“Jackson stays here,” Derek says, like he doesn’t think Jackson’s _good enough_ to go with him or something. Which is total bullshit, because if Jackson isn’t good enough by now, it’s Derek’s fault for not training him better, but for once Jackson isn’t complaining. He’d love to kill werewolves. He just also has many, many things that Derek seems to lack, among them, aside from a fashion sense and even a vague appreciation for basic social standards, an actual self-preservation instinct.

“Nope,” says Lydia. “Jackson goes, or neither of you go. There are werewolves out there. I’m not letting you go running around without backup.”

“It’s harder to keep track of two people than one,” Derek says through gritted teeth. “I’m used to working alone. I’m not dragging Prince Charming over there out hunting like it’s a hobby. It’ll be less dangerous for me by myself.”

“Hey, you recruited _me_ ,” Jackson snaps, stabbing his forefinger at Derek’s chest. “ _You_ came up to _me_ and dragged me into this. I didn’t ask to be a part of your war games or your freaky vendetta.”

“Yes, you did,” Derek says. “You wanted to be stronger. Remember? You wanted to fight back. I’m not the one who would have gone after a werewolf with nothing more than a _lacrosse stick_ , and I didn’t put those scratches on the back of your neck.” Jackson’s fingers press against them instantly, on reflex.

The back of his neck has been throbbing constantly for so long he sometimes forgets that it’s not normal. That some _thing_ marked him like this, gave him its nightmares, left the memory of the taste of blood on his lips, left him flinching, sometimes, at things he can’t control. He’d had to grab the back of Lydia’s chair with both hands and clench his jaw to keep from swaying or collapsing earlier tonight, when the full moon rose and the sun set. He doesn’t think Derek or Lydia noticed.

Derek, Jackson is pretty sure, just wants all the werewolves dead. He doesn’t understand. Jackson needs to _kill_ this one, to take back control for himself.

“If you’re going to keep posturing like a couple of male gorillas, can you both please do me a favor and do it outside, please,” Lydia says. “I have to concentrate. Oh, and don’t forget to take the rifles _without_ the wolfsbane.”

Jackson has no idea why he’s going to the gun rack and following Lydia’s orders, but Derek is grabbing his coat like the leather jacket personally offended him, so at least he’s not the only one.

“Come on,” Derek growls. “I’m driving.”

 

Stiles should not be here. Stiles _really_ shouldn’t be here.

Stiles should be home. Doing geometry. Maybe typing up that chem lab that, oh yeah, is due tomorrow. His grade is more than high enough to withstand one late report, but the chem sub is creepy and he really doesn’t want to get on her bad side.

Stiles should be literally _anywhere else in the world_ other than here, in his jeep, sitting in the driveway of a house inhabited by known werewolves on the night of the full moon. Unfortunately, Stiles has never been all that good at ‘should’.

The house is dark, and silent. The woods are dark, though occasionally some leaves will rustle or something. It’s not like there’s anything to _see_ out here. If they really are good little tame werewolves, Stiles figures they could be anywhere from self-imposed confinement chained up in the basement, to running around naked in the forest baying at the moon and celebrating the powers of nature, or whatever. If they’re not, well, they could still be anywhere. Mauling unsuspecting campers just like they did Mr. Harris.

The Argents could basically be ravaging innocent people anywhere in Beacon County, and Stiles wouldn’t even know about it until the day after tomorrow’s paper reported a rash of mountain lion attacks. Which. He really could’ve kept an eye on without ever leaving his own home. Because Stiles is a _genius_ , and always thinks of these things ahead of time.

Stiles sighs and flicks his cell phone open again to check the time. 11:13. If he goes home now, he can catch the late rerun of the Daily Show and still have time to finish his lab report for tomorrow. If he stays, he’s risking death and dismemberment, or worse, several hours of unsurpassed boredom. God, maybe his dad’s right and he shouldn’t plan on being a cop. Stakeouts _suck_.

Of course...

Look, Stiles didn’t come all this way and risk messy werewolf-inflicted death and whatever things a totally human-form Kate can probably do to him just to turn around and go home. He’s _here_. The house is clearly empty. If it _smells_ like him, or whatever crazy werewolf sensing thing the pack might have going on, well, Stiles has been all over half the house already anyway. Maybe they won’t notice.

“Oh, this is so very easily the worst idea I’ve ever had,” Stiles says to himself, glancing from quiet woods to silent house and back again. His leg’s jiggling with nerves and anticipation. _This_ is why Stiles needs to tell Scott about things. Somebody needs to _stop him_.

Nobody is going to stop him. Nobody else is _here_. And Stiles has been wanting a crack at that house and the secret passages he _knows_ it has to have since way before he realized it was built by actual werewolf hunters.

“Okay,” he says, because making bargains with himself always seems more final if he does it out loud. “If the key’s under the mat, we go in. If the door’s locked, we go home.”

Worst idea ever. Worst idea _ever_ , and this is _so fucking cool_ because he is breaking into a _werewolf’s_ house on the night of the full moon, and Stiles really, really wishes Scott were here, because alone this feels a lot less like an adventure and more like a terrifying necessity.

Stiles has to stare at the front porch of the house, hand on the door handle of the car, for a long minute before he psyches himself up enough to dash out. He covers the yardage in between so fast that he actually spares a sideways wish that Coach were here to see him. And, y’know, to get eaten first if ravenous wolf-beasts really are around, whatever.

There’s no key under the mat. Okay. Okay, that means that this whole plan was ridiculous and really badly thought-out, and Stiles’ dad may have a point about that whole ‘problems with impulse control’ thing, and he should leave and never think of this again--

He puts a hand on the doorknob and it turns under his fingers. The house isn’t locked.

“Okay,” Stiles says, taking in the shadowy foyer he’s gotten so familiar with over the past couple of months. “Worst idea of my life, take two.”

 

Chris can feel the growl rumbling deep in his throat, but he bites it down. He’s got too much experience in this game to be making any noise. It doesn’t seem to matter, though--the attacks have been coming from everywhere.

Allison is still favoring her right arm; he didn’t see how deep the bolt went, but Chris wouldn’t be surprised if the injury doesn’t fully heal until tomorrow. Allison shouldn’t still be out with them at all, not with strange hunters and impossible traps and god knows what else in the woods tonight, but it’s not safe to send her back alone, and he needs Victoria here. She can read him, the tilt of his head and even the incremental tightness of his shoulders, even better than Kate can, and she’s a thousand times steadier in a crisis. This isn’t the moment for Kate’s furious flurry of attacks. Not when they don’t even know what they’re up against.

There have been two more attacks, or traps, or _something_ , since the first. A pit opened up beneath Kate’s feet so suddenly she had to twist in midair like a cat, and only barely sprang clear. No warning, no tripwire, on ground that Chris himself had walked across just moments before, and yet there it was. Then there were more crossbow bolts: one that the Alpha himself snatched out of the air, and then a flurry of them just a few moments later, fired from a totally different angle when Chris and Kate took off into the undergrowth to find the shooter. It might have been another rigged trap, but the bolts followed them, changed aim. Chris took one to his left forearm, just barely blocking his face in time, and tore it out with his teeth. It’s stopped bleeding, and it’s mostly healed by now. Enough to hunt through it.

He doesn’t get the feeling that they’re being herded, which is the only reason Chris has favored moving at all. His father is aiming them towards a particular patch of thicker forest, choked vines and dense trees along both sides of a ravine, where the sight lines are short and the wolves will have an advantage. Let the hunters come to them there, if they’re brave enough.

Chris is bringing up the rear again, one eye on the betas running in front of him, all his other senses strained to make sure nobody’s approaching from the sides or behind. Allison’s not as fast as she needs to be. She’s not used to pushing through an injury yet. They’ll work on that, when they all get out of this alive.

The Alpha has the lead, so Chris isn’t watching the front when they hit the ravine. He sees Kate spring down out of the corner of his eye, dismisses it in favor of watching the surrounding woods.

There’s a rustle in the trees across the ravine and two dozen yards away. Then the ravine explodes.

Chris hits the ground automatically, instinctively, closes his eyes from the flash and covers his head. It’s several moments before he manages to peer up and assess the situation, determine the damage.

There’s a chunk taken out of the ravine twenty yards to the north, rubble collapsing in on itself, leaves sizzling on their branches. A moment later, Kate’s head pops up. She clambers back up to solid ground, and Chris allows himself a quick moment of relief.

“Kate,” says the Alpha. “Take Allison back to the house.”

Very, very quietly, Chris thinks to himself that his father wanted a war. He got a battlefield.

 

Lydia owes Danny something nice, for cobbling this wireless network together. Something very, very nice. Maybe she’ll tie Derek up and leave him on Danny’s bed dressed only in a bow. Lydia’s seen Derek without a shirt on, he would count.

It’s amazing what you can do with only a little ingenuity, a few small security cameras, two dozen crossbows on remotely-operated swivel mounts, a nail gun, and a wireless receiver/transmitter tacked up at the top of a tree. She’s spent all night just a little worried that somebody is going to try to use a garage door opener or their TV remote a little too close to the preserve and kick off half a dozen traps with no wolves in sight, but so far, so good.

There are eighteen key spots, all of them set up by Derek and Jackson over the past couple of weeks, always in daylight, always while extremely well-armed, and Lydia spent the whole time biting her lip with worry that they might not come back even with all the protection. Derek swore he hid every last trap well enough that the wolves couldn’t find it, and she’s had to believe that Derek knows what he’s doing. She’d expected it to work, because all of Lydia’s plans work. She’s a little astonished that it’s working this _well_.

Derek’s done enough reconnaissance in the preserve that he had some idea of key spots where the wolves would probably pass, but it’s a big preserve. So far the wolves have only hit five of them, and as far as Lydia can tell, the leg snare misfired so badly they didn’t even notice. Well, that one was always a shot in the dark; Derek knows how to tie a snare to a tripwire, but he could only guess at how to remotely trigger one to make sure it would actually catch something. Still. This is promising. It's not even midnight, and they've already hit her very favorite, the exploding gorge.

Lydia didn't ask Derek how he knew where to buy explosive charges, and he didn't ask how she knew how to set them. It's an arrangement that Lydia thinks will continue to work quite well.

She’s tracking Derek and Jackson’s cell phones, because there are all of ten security cameras mounted in the preserve, all of them overlooking traps that don’t have pressure sensors or motion detectors or something similar to alert Lydia into setting them off. If she can’t be sure her boys are _safe_ , Lydia is definitely going to be sure she knows where they _are_. She’s not sure when, exactly, Derek became _her_ boy, but it’s obvious that _somebody_ needs to take charge of him.

Given her way, Lydia would really prefer to have Jackson and Derek safely here in the apartment while she runs the entire setup remotely, far away from any bloodshed or chance of danger. All right, they’d started to grate on her nerves before the sun even set, but they could have found _something_ to keep themselves busy. TV, or, since Derek doesn’t have one, something downloaded on a spare tablet. Shirtless wrestling. Something to finally break the testosterone-laden tension that’s been building between them for at least as long as Lydia’s known Derek existed. She’d be happy to watch and offer tips, in between remotely aiming crossbow bolts.

She could do it, she could take care of them all, but no. No, Derek has to go off and be a hero, and Jackson...

She should have let Jackson stay here. He wanted to. He’s not trained for this, not really, and if anything happens to him out there tonight, Lydia won’t ever forgive herself. But if she’d let Derek go off alone, and anything had happened to him...

There’s a blinking red message on one of the sensor panels, and a flash of movement, too big to be anything but a werewolf, on one of the cameras. It looks like they split up. Okay, then. Lydia has work to do.

 

They’re half a mile from the house when Kate hears the sounds of poorly-concealed footsteps. Allison’s been keeping up just fine the last mile or so, as her arm heals up. Kate knew she would.

They ran into one more of those crossbow bolts out of nowhere along the way, but it missed them by a good fifteen feet. If it was some kind of trap, the tripwire, or the sensor, or _whatever_ set it off must’ve been in completely the wrong place; if there was an actual hunter there somewhere, they had the crappiest aim Kate’s ever seen. Neither of those makes sense for what they’ve seen in the forest tonight, but honestly, nothing Kate’s seeing tonight makes sense at all.

It’s about time that changes. Kate pauses in the shadowy cover between two oak trees, stops Allison by holding up a single finger. Kate tilts her head towards the footsteps, waits for Allison to hear them, and grins. Allie might just bag her very first hunter, tonight. It’s about time someone lets this girl grow up.

Kate runs her fingers over the place where Allison was hit, just to make sure. Allison twitches but doesn’t pull back, and there’s still a wound but it’s not bleeding any more, which is good enough for Kate. She catches Allison’s eye, and then raises her hands for a series of quick, simple gestures they’ve all been teaching Allison since she was born. Two fingers pointing towards the noise, in the east, a circle sketched in midair, one hand raised and a series of sharp jabs.

Allison’s face is pale and wary in the moonlight, but Kate nudges her uninjured shoulder. Allison slowly nods.

Kate waits just a moment to make sure. Then she’s off on all fours, faster than a human could jog and barely a quarter of her own full speed, because silence is way more important right now. Allison’s right behind her. She doesn’t even rustle the leaves. Kate is so fucking proud of that girl sometimes.

The footsteps are quiet but definitely audible, even from most of a mile away. They’re back towards the road, heading further into the woods. Kate has to get close enough to see them before she’s sure how many there are: two, both male, one tromping through the woods like a first grader on his way home from a bad day in school, the other almost as quiet as she is. Too bad it won’t help him, the way his friend keeps making noise.

Kate has to wait for the moon to move out from behind another cloud before she can be sure, but that build, those shoulders--she thinks this might actually be Hale himself. Nice. Very nice. And the other one? Kate’s been making a hobby out of him for long enough, it’s nice to finally see her boy come to _her_. Derek Hale and Jackson Whittemore, lost in the woods. This should be fun.

Allison isn’t behind her any more. Kate flexes her shoulders, her claws, cracks her neck. She’s ready.

Kate watches them move, ducking under branches, carrying heavy rifles and god knows what else in those bags, picks her moment. The boys are just coming down a graveled little slope, a bigger gap between trees than most, when she springs.

Kate dashes across the clearing on all fours, fast as lightning, brushing by close enough to sink a hand full of claws into somebody’s thigh and then disappearing off between the trees again. Behind her, she can hear muffled cursing, somebody fumbling with his gun. A moment later, there’s the ear-splitting *crack* of a rifle shot not ten feet away, but Kate veered off to the left the second she was lost to view, and it misses her by yards.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Jackson demands, shaken. For a boy that buff, he really is easy to shake, isn’t he? Kate’s seen how he wakes up from some of the memories she gave him. Some of her favorite kills were in there. It’s a pity Jackson hasn’t seemed to enjoy them very much.

Well, it’ll be nice to finally get her claws into him for real this time, and he’ll be plenty easy to take down. Kate’s still not sure what the hell possessed Hale to give the kid a gun, but it’s going to make _her_ night plenty interesting.

“ _Stay with me,_ ” Hale snaps, so sharply Kate’s eyebrows twitch upwards, impressed. “Keep your hands on your rifle and your back to mine, and don’t waste your ammo shooting until you know you have something to shoot for.” Kate’s never been sure exactly how well humans can see in the dark, but she’s pretty sure she can get around those odds.

She slinks up closer, near enough that she might look like a moving shadow if somebody’s paying just enough attention, and circles the pair of hunters silently. Jackson’s clutching his rifle so tight Kate’s impressed it hasn’t cracked. Poor baby. Out past his bedtime, playing with wolves...

“What’s the matter?” Kate asks, and then dodges instantly back to the left when Hale swings his rifle around. “Not man enough to come in and get me? Two big, strapping boys like yourselves can’t take on one nasty little bitch like me?” Hale is tracking her voice with the barrel of his gun, but she’s faded too far back among the trees to actually see. Poor Jackson looks about ready to piss his pants. “You sure you should be playing with the big boys’ toys, kid? That gun looks a little too big for you to handle.”

They’re both looking for her now, rifles pointed vaguely in the same direction, eyes sweeping the ground for moving shadows. Hale’s almost good at this--he catches something, a flicker of movement, has his gun aimed and firing right for her foot so fast Kate almost doesn’t have time to get out of the way. She yanks away, crinkling leaves as she goes, and they both aim for the noise, firing shots she actually has to work to dodge. If she were going to do this indefinitely, she might even be in trouble.

The important thing, though, is that both hunters are completely focused on _her_ , and the ground, and neither one of them even spares a second to look ten feet above their heads in the opposite direction. Hale fires one more shot, and then Allison makes her leap.

Out of nowhere, from the branches of one of the nearby trees, Allison comes down like a missile of teeth and claws and chaos and terror. There she is. That’s Kate’s good girl.

Allison lands right on top of Hale from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. Kate’s darting forward in an instant to make sure the guns don’t come into play while Allison is caught in the grapple, but Jackson’s already dropped his. Hale struggles like a landed fish, almost flips Allison right off his back before Kate pounces in, rips his left hand away from the stock of his gun and yanks it so far up behind him that one twitch out of him will make the shoulder pop.

Allison twists away, now that Kate’s got Hale pinned beneath her, ready to spring off after Jackson. “Let him go,” Kate orders. She’s got no doubts Allison could take that idiot all on her own, especially since his rifle is still sitting right there on the ground, but Kate wouldn’t put it past him to try and draw Allison on to another one of those traps. Anyway Kate’s life would be worth about as much as Derek Hale’s, if she let Allison get hurt off on her own tonight.

“I can take him,” Allison says.

“Need you to help me get this one back to the house,” Kate says. She squeezes Hale’s wrist a little harder for the pleasure of feeling all those little bones grinding together under the skin. The involuntary little gasp he lets out just makes it all so much better. “Alpha promised me I could use some of those great dungeon facilities up at the house if we ever found somebody that needed them, and I can’t think of a single better way to find out what’s going on tonight, can you?”

 

The house is completely empty. Probably. Stiles is pretty sure this ought to make him feel _better_ , and okay, compared to how he’d probably be feeling if, say, he opened a door and found a ravenous man-eating werewolf on the other side, empty is _great_. The problem is that it’s a hundred-and-thirty-year-old house, and it doesn’t need people in it to make noises. Creaks. Mysterious thuds. Seriously, when was the last time anybody checked the piping on this place? Are werewolves susceptible to lead poisoning? Maybe it’s only silver, and okay, that’s another good question, how did a pack of werewolves end up named _Argent_ in the first place?

Armed with the most rambling train of non-massacre-related thoughts he can possibly sustain, Stiles gets to sneaking. He’s seen blueprints of this house, they’re on file at the Beacon Hills Library as documents ‘of historical interest to the town’. They didn’t actually include any secret doors or passages, but there were a few weird empty spots and crawl spaces that he hasn’t seen any sign of in person. Not that Kate usually lets him out of her sight for more than two minutes at a time, when he’s over here...

The house isn’t _supposed_ to have a basement at all, which is pretty typical for Beacon Hills and California in general, but Stiles doesn’t believe it. Not in a werewolf hunter’s house. There’s got to be something secreted away here, and if it exists, then the Argents have probably found it, and if the Argents have found it and then _Stiles_ finds it, he can find out what they’ve done with it, and maybe, somewhere in all of those _ifs_ , he can make the world make sense again. Come on. Investigative detective time. He can make it happen.

Thinking logically: he can skip any exterior walls, anything a bank realtor probably would have poked at and noticed if it opened to, say, a dark, dank secret underground lair, anything that looks like the Argents brought it in themselves, and anything that’s so blocked off it looks like it would be really difficult to access on a regular basis. Given all that, he’s still got a _shitload_ of house to search and not that much time to do it. Ok, Stiles, you wanted to do this. Let’s go.

He’s halfway into the weird little trapezoid-shaped hall broom closet when he hears the first shot. Stiles jerks upright, flails, knocks over the vacuum cleaner, barely catches himself on a bare hook, and then almost falls on his face _again_ when the wall behind the hook swings open. Well. Apparently werewolves are better about not tripping over the vacuum than Stiles would be. Good to know.

There’s another bang from somewhere off into the woods. This one’s a lot quieter than the first, but Stiles knows a few things about how gunshots work, and depending on the direction of the shot and the modifications to the weaponry and about eight million other factors, relative volume doesn’t mean shit. There could be somebody firing a shotgun two miles away, or god knows what right in the front yard, and it could sound about the same.

Another shot rings out, this one even louder than the first, and even though Stiles is listening for it he almost jumps out of his skin. Okay. Probably not two miles away, then.

He glances towards the front windows, just barely visible down the hall from the closet. Not a flicker of light, or movement; there could be _anything_ out there. He glances back at the hidden door.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sighs. Okay. Stiles has no idea what’s down there. Stiles has no idea if there’s any secondary way _out_ from whatever’s down there. Stiles has no idea what’s out in the woods, what might be coming this way, who might be _firing guns_ at whom, or how likely anybody is to actually come by the house while he’s exploring.

There is a flashlight in the closet. He’s been doing most of his exploring by the light of his phone display, but there is a flashlight _right in front of him_.

There is a flashlight right in front of him. There are at least five werewolves and an unknown number of gunmen outside. There is a _secret passageway_ right next to him, oh god, why is this even an issue, why is he--

Another gunshot from outside, and Stiles leaves the closet hanging open to creep down the hall towards the closest window and peer out. Nothing. Just the woods, and the moon, and his Jeep sitting right there in the driveway, and--

Oh, god. Oh, god, this is going to be the _hardest thing he’s ever done_ , but the thing is, of all the things Stiles _doesn’t know_? If he leaves the Jeep there, and gets all caught up exploring secret passageways underneath the Argent house, and Kate comes home and sees it there when she explicitly told him not to come by and he _promised_ to let everything drop? Stiles has a feeling he knows exactly how Kate’s going to react to that.

The secret passage will still be there later. It’s been here for a hundred and thirty years. What Stiles needs to do is, he needs to _not die_ tonight so he’ll actually be able to look down there later, and then tell Scott what he finds. Going down secret passages unprepared and without seriously considering their surroundings gets people killed _all the time_ in movies.

It’s actually physically painful to drag himself back into the closet and pull the secret door closed. Stiles is experiencing _actual pain_. In his _soul_.

He realizes that the gunshots have tailed off around the same time he lets himself back out the front door of the house, and Stiles hoofs it back to his car double-time. Okay, it is well past time to get the hell out of the creepy werewolf-infested forest and home so he can pretend he was playing video games all night while pretending to do homework.

Somewhere up near the main road, he catches the tail lights of some shiny little black Camaro that he’d swear he’s seen around town before, but other than that, at 1 AM Beacon Hills is pretty much deserted. Thank god for that. Still, Stiles keeps right around the speed limit the whole way home. He did not survive a night with the werewolf menace just to get pulled over by one of his dad’s patrol guys for speeding.

 

Derek’s cell phone is moving, but it’s not going in the same direction as Jackson’s. Jackson’s cell phone is nowhere _near_ the Beacon Hills Preserve, and yet there Derek’s goes, too fast for normal walking speed, headed straight for the coordinates Lydia has marked down as _’house’_. If Lydia could risk getting up from the monitors, she’d be pacing by now. Years of iron discipline have kept her nails perfectly intact, but one of the spare napkins from the takeout is now in shreds all over the desk. This isn’t good. Nothing about this is good.

She’s set off almost a dozen traps, including all five of the ones she had marked down on her list in red for _high likelihood of traffic--high ordinance_. Every time she gets a glimpse of one of the werewolves, all Lydia sees is violent fury in their movements. They’ve done _well_ tonight. Now she just wants to know why Jackson appears to be tearing his way through the streets of Beacon Hills while Derek’s cell phone is on its way to enemy HQ, and why Jackson _isn’t picking up his phone_.

She has all of her chemistry homework done for the next week and a half by the time Jackson finally barges in the door to the apartment. Lydia stands up as soon as she hears the door click open, never mind the rest of the sensors and traps, they can take care of _themselves_ , it’s not as though she hasn’t already done _enough._

Jackson stumbles in, dirt smeared across his pants and his jacket, a bit of bark or leaf stuck in his hair. Unarmed.

“Where’s Derek?” Lydia asks, and Jackson stares at her, open-mouthed, inarticulate. “Jackson. What did you do?”

“There were werewolves,” Jackson says. “They were fast, they--”

“Is he dead?” Lydia snaps.

“I don’t know. I don’t _know_. I don’t think he was, but they had him facedown on the ground, so by now he probably is,” says Jackson, and Lydia says,

“So you just _left him there_?”

This is her fault. She should have planned this better, this is her fault. She should have known not to send Jackson out against werewolves, with or without Derek at his side.

“Get out,” Lydia says, and Jackson stares.

“Lydia, I’m--”

“Get out of here,” she repeats. “Go home, I’ve got work to do. You’re in my way. Get out of here and don’t let me see your face again tonight.”

It’s 1:53 in the morning. There are still seven unsprung traps in the woods of the Beacon Hills Preserve, and Lydia Martin has work to do.

Jackson lets himself out.

 

Allison’s not in school again on Thursday. She’s not answering her text messages, either, and Scott knows her family’s kind of strict about stuff, but he’s wondering if maybe he should be kinda worried.

“Did Kate say anything to you about their family thing going on through today?” he asks Stiles in homeroom. Stiles slumps down in his seat until his head is resting on the back of the chair, eyes closed.

“Kate doesn’t tell me shit,” he says, and he’s all raspy like he didn’t sleep at _all_ last night.

They have this deal going, where Scott doesn’t hassle Stiles about the fact that the whole thing with Kate still really creeps him out. Allison doesn’t seem to think it’s that big of a deal, and if Allison’s okay with it, Scott guesses it’s _fine_ , but it still doesn’t feel right.

Still, Stiles isn’t going to listen to him, and life is going to get really awkward if Scott’s dating Allison and Stiles is doing _whatever_ with Kate and Stiles is pissed at him, so Scott’s mostly minding his own business. Mostly.

“Dude, where were you last night, anyway?” Scott asks, punching Stiles in the shoulder. It gets Stiles to open his eyes and tilt his head in Scott’s direction, so, win. “I tried texting and IM’ing you, like, six different times and you weren’t on.”

“There was a werewolf movie marathon on TV, I got all caught up and forgot to check my phone,” Stiles says.

“Oh yeah, what channel?” Scott asks, annoyance momentarily forgotten for, well, _another_ annoyance. He always misses the good marathons.

“Syfy,” Stiles says. “And then I had to stay up the rest of the night to finish my chem lab, so I could really use the five minutes of naptime that homeroom affords me before I have to face the rest of the day.” The bell rings, and Stiles groans. “Great,” he says, and shoves himself upright. “Coordinate geometry, here I come.”

Scott frowns and watches Stiles half-walk, half-stumble out of the classroom. It’s weird that Stiles would lie about something like that, but it’s really easy to tell when Stiles is lying if you know what you’re looking for. He sort of twitches. Also, Scott doesn’t think they even _show_ movie marathons on Syfy channel on Wednesday nights.

Honestly, the whole school seems kind of empty today. Maybe it’s just that Jackson’s gone again, and he always takes up way more than his share of the oxygen in whatever room he’s standing in. Coach is pissed, though. Scott might even get to see the field during practice today.

“Dude, even Lydia’s gone,” Scott says at lunch, glancing out over the cafeteria.

“Hmm? Yeah, guess so,” says Stiles, poking at his mashed potatoes distractedly.

Seriously. This Kate thing bugs Scott, like, a _lot_ lately. If Stiles doesn’t even care about what Lydia Martin’s doing, then something about the world is just _wrong_.

 

Lydia spends all day at the apartment complex. The unit on the far left, the two-bedroom they put under Nathan Zimmerman’s name, came half-furnished, and Lydia insisted on picking up a new set of sheets for the bed just in case she had to sleep over for a night. There are spare toothbrushes, an overnight bag’s worth of clothes and clean underwear, shampoo, soap. Lydia’s been spending a lot of time over here lately, pretending she knows anything about running a war. It’s good to be prepared.

She watches the monitors until dawn, then carefully locks up the unit on the far right, the one rented under the name Peter Hale, with its enormously expensive computer setup, half-stocked kitchenette, and one bedroom utterly bare of anything except dust. She walks down to the unit on the far left with quick little steps, heels echoing on the concrete, hugging herself against the early-morning cold, lets herself in, hangs her dress carefully in the bedroom closet to keep it from wrinkling, and goes to bed. She sleeps until noon.

Lydia doesn’t generally sleep past eight in the morning, even on weekends, but she doesn’t generally go to bed at seven AM, either. She doesn’t generally cry into her pillow over weirdo college-aged jerks who she’s only known for a month, but she also isn’t particularly used to finding out that someone she actually knows has _died_. She certainly isn’t used to being responsible for it.

Lydia’s doing a lot of things she’s not used to today.

The bed is too small and too empty, when she wakes up. It doesn’t smell like hers and it doesn’t smell like _Jackson_. Lydia misses Jackson, achingly, more than she has since he broke up with her.

Well. She set out and crafted a plan to kill people. Somebody died. Nobody can say this wasn’t well within a 95% confidence interval of probable results. 

Time to move on. Derek was a jerk, and a strange man, a 22-year-old who hung out with high school kids, a disturbing vigilante loner with an obsessive vendetta and probably a deathwish. Lydia Martin is in charge of her own destiny. Time to decide what to do with the world in front of her.

Lydia takes a shower.

By the time she’s clean, dry, wearing the sweater and leggings from her overnight bag, hair braided back--not blow-dried, these accommodations are ridiculously primitive--makeup perfectly applied, she has the first underpinnings of a plan. Of a few plans, really. It depends on Jackson.

It’s almost two, by the time she heads back to the apartment on the far right to check on the computers. She’s starving. She hadn’t even thought. She finished the leftover Chinese around four in the morning, but there’s nonfat yogurt and grapefruit juice in the fridge. If she gets really desperate, Derek has a stockpile of power bars and beef jerky in his apartment. Or she could just leave and go home for dinner.

Jackson lets himself in around 3:30. The camera logs and sensor data haven’t shown a single movement in the parts of the woods Lydia’s tracking since this morning. She’s been watching them anyway. Just in case.

“How was school?” Lydia asks. She glances up. Jackson’s still wearing the same jeans and shirt as yesterday, and they look slept-in. His eyes are red. Hungover. She knows better than to suggest he’s been crying. She knows better than to admit she has at all.

“I almost died last night,” is what Jackson says, and Lydia presses her lips together thin, because she knows. She’d thought about that last night, too, in the very small hours when she was trying not to think about much of anything.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says quietly, without getting up.

“No, you don’t _understand,_ ” says Jackson, gesturing widely with his hands. “I almost _died_ , Lydia. Again. And I’m _sorry_ about Derek, but there was _nothing I could do._ That _thing_ almost killed me. I could feel its claws scraping past my face.”

He’s such an _asshole_ , such an utter fucking asshole, making this all about _him_ , but Lydia spent too much time last night watching the flickering dots of their cell signals worried sick about him. She _misses_ Jackson.

He’s selfish, and he’s self-absorbed, and Lydia can be crueler to him than she can to anybody else on earth because she knows he can take it, and not just suffer in silence but fight right back. Jackson takes her worst, because he knows she can take his. All the selfish, cowardly, awful parts of Jackson Whittemore, Lydia’s seen them all, she _knows_ them, he’s _hers_ , and it’s his body she misses in bed in the quiet hours when she doesn’t even know how to take what she’s done. He’s afraid of everything, and he’s afraid of losing everything that’s supposed to be his, and he got them into this in the first place, and he’s Jackson, and he belongs to her.

Lydia stands up, takes a step forward, and it’s enough for him to come to her the rest of the way. She lets Jackson’s arms curl around her, presses her cheek against his shoulder and hugs as tight as she can. It feels _safe_. It’s the first thing that has since last night. It might be the first thing that has in a long time.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Lydia says again, more quietly this time, her head resting on Jackson’s shoulder.

He ends up dragging the only other chair in the apartment over to sit next to her at the computer bank. Lydia offers him the rest of her yogurt, but Jackson makes the face of the miserably hung-over and turns it aside, so Lydia forces a glass of water on him, which he sips gingerly. Then she gets to business.

“We have a few options,” Lydia says. “We can still cut our losses, pretend we never knew Derek Hale, wipe our fingerprints off every surface in these apartments just in case the police come knocking, and forget any of this ever happened. The Argents will kill again, but probably not us, if we stay inside and in highly public places until they leave town. We never should have gotten into this to begin with.”

“You mean there are options _besides_ that?” Jackson asks.

“We could call some of Derek’s contacts,” Lydia says. “I have Nathan Zimmerman’s number, and Derek left lists in some of his papers. Other hunters could come in and take care of things instead of him.”

“Or they could fuck it all up even more,” says Jackson. “No thanks. I’ve seen how competent ‘ _professional werewolf hunters_ ’ are.”

“Or we could finish the plan,” says Lydia. “We still have Derek’s entire stockpile of weapons and ammunition. It might still work.”

“No,” Jackson snaps instantly. “No, Lydia, over my _dead body_. Which is what you’re going to end up with, if you want to keep _pushing_ like this. Absolutely not.”

“We might not have a choice,” Lydia points out. “Allison knows it was us. The Argents might come after us one way or another, now that they know Derek’s dead and we’re weaker.”

“No,” says Jackson. “Lydia--”

The front door swings open. Lydia turns.

“I thought you locked that,” she says mildly to Jackson.

“I did,” Jackson says. Lydia doesn’t bother to glance over at him. She’s too busy looking their new arrival up and down.

It’s a man, probably, or at least it’s something that looks both male and human, about 35 years of age. Well-coiffed hair, stylish long trench coat, and a look of mild interest on his face, as his eyes sweep over Lydia and Jackson, that Lydia mistrusts immediately.

“Well hello,” the man says. “I don’t suppose either of you could tell me where I might find Derek Hale?”

The question hits Lydia like an arrow to the gut, but only a small one. It’s already better than last night. “Who wants to know?” she asks instead. It’s so hard to be the proper combination of chic and superior with her hair in braids. She needs her hair toss to make it all feel complete.

“Oh, hasn’t he mentioned me?” asks the man, stepping fully inside the apartment; the front door thuds closed behind him. “I’d think he must have, at one point or another. I’m Derek’s dear uncle Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence and graphic injury, references to stalking--this is actually one of the easier chapters we get, albeit one of the bloodiest. Go figure.


	6. Chapter 5: They say you can catch it but sometimes you're born with it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everybody comes from somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My work just got a little crazy, so it looks like the rest of the story is going to have an every-other-day posting schedule, rather than daily. Not to worry: we're halfway through, only four more chapters to go!
> 
> Chapter title from 'Runs In The Family', by Amanda Palmer. See bottom of the work for detailed warnings.
> 
> (as always, feel free to come [follow me on tumblr](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com))

Derek doesn’t remember passing out. When he comes to he’s chained spread-eagle with manacles heavy enough to hold a werewolf at full moon, aching, bruised, breathing shallowly against a pain in his chest that feels like broken ribs for sure. It’s an unpleasant surprise to realize he’s woken up at all.

The room’s quiet, empty. Derek’s never seen it from quite this angle before, hasn’t seen it at all since he was about fourteen, but he recognizes the Hale house dungeons when he’s strung up in them.

Derek closes his eyes, tries to breathe in past the pain of his ribs. Remembers.

Derek Hale is a hunter, son of hunters. He’s seen torture before. He knows what comes next.

The first time Derek was injured badly enough to need a hospital, he was seven years old, and he fell off the roof of their covered porch somewhere in Virginia. He and Laura were playing War Fortress. Derek was supposed to be the sniper. He broke his right arm in two places, but he hadn’t cried--not until Laura, still smarting from the massive grounding, told him to stop being a baby because Mom and Dad got hurt worse than this all the time. Sure enough, four weeks later their parents came home from tangling with the pack they’d gone there to hunt. Their mother had to stagger in draped over their father’s shoulder, putting as little weight on her broken leg as possible. She and Derek were cast buddies until he got his off.

Injuries are common in Derek’s line of work. Pain is common. He’s used to it.

Derek hears the door grate against the graveled floor, but doesn’t open his eyes until the bright light hits him. He immediately has to shut them again against the glare, but he gets a good look at the werewolf standing next to the floodlight. He hasn’t met her before in person. He’d remember. Even if Derek weren’t about to die here, he doesn’t think that grin is one he’d easily forget.

He’s been watching the Argents from afar long enough to recognize her, though, and she’s something of a relief. Kate Argent will be easier to goad into killing him than her brother would. As for Victoria, well. Apparently she’s had all the same training Derek has.

“Heard your heartbeat change from all the way upstairs,” Kate purrs. Out of nowhere there’s the cold prickle of fingernails on Derek’s bare chest, right over his heart, and he flinches before he can stop himself. Kate laughs. “You’re going like a little rabbit, sweetie. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the big bad werewolf hunter’s scared.”

There are rules for when you’re being interrogated. Derek’s known them since he was seven years old, trapped inside with his mother on a hot summer day while Dad taught Laura to dig holes for traps, and to run wind sprints until she collapsed, and how to atone for sending her little brother up to climb on a rickety roof. Derek’s known the rules for being interrogated longer than he’s known some of the rules for hunting. Children are a liability.

Rule number one: never forget, this is temporary. Someone _is_ coming for you. Remember that and never let it go.

(Rule number one, the revised version, the one Derek learned when he was sixteen and only Laura was there to rescue him any more: know, with absolute certainty, whether anyone is coming for you or not. This is temporary either way. Know how to make them kill you quickly. Keep that plan tight in reserve, and never let it go.)

“So what’s the story, big bad werewolf hunter?” Kate asks. Her claws are feather-light tracing over his chest, across his stomach, tracing along the waistband of his pants. She let him keep his jeans. He doesn’t know why.

If Derek shoved himself forward suddenly enough, she’d probably have quick enough reflexes to pull back before he impaled himself on her claws. He needs a better plan.

“You and your little band of merry men were up to something last night,” Kate says, leaning in so close Derek can feel the heat of her body half an inch from his. He keeps his eyes closed. “You’re going to tell me what.”

Rule number two: do whatever you have to, in order to survive. Remember that telling them what they want almost certainly means they’ll kill you. It’s easier not to accidentally say something you don’t want to, if you don’t say anything at all.

(Rule number two revised, the version Derek learned before his parents even died, the winter he was fifteen when that pack in Minnesota grabbed his cousin Macie and used her information to kill four hunters before they were put down: keeping your secrets is more important than your own survival. Don’t open your mouth. Ever.)

Derek doesn’t move. Kate’s laugh is a breath of warm air over his ear.

“Strong, silent type?” she says. “Yeah, I can see that. Those abs, I mean, you’ve got the body for it. I couldn’t believe it when we got you down here, unwrapped you a little.” Her head moves away from his, but Derek doesn’t let himself relax. “Look at this man-shaped piece of something I get to play with, all to myself. I just want to _lick_ it.”

The first touch of her tongue is _wet_ , warm, and so unexpected that Derek jumps. Kate laughs, grabs him by the hips so he can’t move, and licks him again, up his stomach all the way to the bottom of his ribcage.

Derek’s always expected to be killed by werewolves, sooner or later. For the past couple of months, he’s even expected it to be _these_ werewolves. The sexual molestation first is, admittedly, kind of a surprise.

Rule number three: go somewhere else, inside your head. Pain is just pain, you’ve felt it before, you’ll feel it again. Don’t try to go somewhere too nice, or you’ll keep being surprised out of it, but go anywhere but here. Whatever they try to do to you, it doesn’t matter. You’re not here for it.

(Revised rule number three isn’t much different, except that there are times you can’t disengage, no matter what. If you’re trying to plan an escape, or to gather as much information about your captors as you can, or to talk your way out of a situation, you have to be right here for all of it. But sometimes, when it all boils down to rescue or death, it all works exactly the same way.)

Samuel Hale dug these catacombs with his son James in 1905. They’ve been expanded and reinforced three times since, by Peter and Samantha during Prohibition, when police raids became common, by Maryam Jager Hale in the fifties, half as a bomb shelter and half as shelter from Derek can only guess what, and by Derek’s own grandfather Michael in the seventies, when most of the family still came home between hunts to their patri- and matriarchs. The chains wrapped around Derek’s wrists are titanium-reinforced steel alloyed with silver, twenty years out of use but still strong and heavy enough to hold any normal werewolf. There are six cells like this down here, along with an emergency pantry, and the empty shell of an armory that Derek hasn’t seen full since the year he was nine.

Derek is not getting out of here alive.

The summer Derek was nine, their family came back to Beacon Hills to finally clear most of Grandpa Michael’s belongings away, for sale or storage or donation to whichever distant branch of the family might want them. The whole arsenal got emptied out, piece by piece. He goaded Laura into playing hide-and-seek in the woods while their parents cleaned and talked to distant relatives whose names they didn’t know.

“Okay, pretty boy,” says Kate. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

The longest Derek ever lived in one place was the house in Vermont. He got through all of sixth and most of seventh grade, there. The snow came up past his knees in the winter. His parents spent more than eighteen months keeping a lid on a simmering border war between two packs too big to simply wipe out. Laura had her first boyfriend, and maybe her first girlfriend, there. She’d refused to talk about it, certainly with her barely-thirteen-year-old little brother, just sulked in passionate silence for two months when they left, even though New Mexico was warm and dry and nobody had to worry about getting pushed in the snow at all.

Whatever Kate’s taping to Derek’s side, it’s sure to be painful. Derek keeps his eyes closed.

He’d been just a little kid when they moved to Vermont, but Derek’s parents spent all the long watchful weeks between confrontations training him in everything they knew. By the time they left, Derek was almost a foot taller, could run, could track, could trap, could shoot, as well as any hunter apprentice out there. They started taking Derek along on real hunts after that, all four of them together or split up into two and two, wherever they were working. When his mother sent him up on the roof to play sniper, she gave him a real rifle, and Derek didn’t slip off.

“You know,” Kate says, “we found this stuff here when we moved in. Pretty sure it’s meant for werewolves, but that’s irony for you, stud.”

Derek went to seven different high schools in five years, before he finally graduated. He doesn’t remember the name of either of the girls he took to prom, only vaguely remembers their faces, but he remembers that ‘family dinner’ meant running through the KFC drive-through on the way to a stakeout and squabbling over napkins with Laura in the back seat of the SUV, rifles and crossbows tucked securely under their feet, while Mom and Dad took turns keeping watch out the windows and quizzing them about their math. He remembers that when it was just the two of them, Laura always made him ride shotgun and took them through Taco Bell, and she always stole the last napkin while Derek was the one keeping watch.

“Me, I’m just wondering how much juice it really takes to kill a human.”

Derek is 22. He’s going to die, just like his sister, just like his parents. He’s a hunter son of hunters, last Hale of the line, in his great-great-great-grandfather’s house.

He hopes Lydia and Jackson will be okay.

Kate flicks a switch, and the coursing electricity snaps Derek’s head back, and there’s no room for thinking any more.

 

Allison is back in school on Friday. Scott beams at her like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, so bright she has to duck her head and look away. It was only two days, but she missed him.

Lydia Martin is in her English class. She’s at the front of the room, talking to the teacher about make-up work, when Allison gets there. Lydia Martin, who smelled like gun oil last Friday, sharp enough to make Allison’s nose twitch from across a room. Lydia, whose boyfriend fled from Allison’s claws two nights ago, even though the moon had her by the spine and Allison almost couldn’t stop herself from running him down, even with Aunt Kate ordering her to stay.

When Lydia breaks away from the teacher, she meets Allison’s eyes and holds them. Allison should turn away, shouldn’t draw attention. Allison can’t be trapped by the gaze of some human, just a teenager, a girl who actually coordinates her lipstick with her shoes. But Lydia doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, and Allison slides into her seat and looks back.

It takes the teacher passing right between them to break the line of sight. Allison bends down and focuses on her notebook. The next week or so will automatically go better if she pretends she cares about making up what she missed yesterday and the day before.

Her parents hadn’t wanted to let her out the door this morning. Aunt Kate says Derek Hale hasn’t given them anything but moans and shouted curses, yet, but give her time.

Allison had said no. She’s an Argent. She’s a werewolf, and a daughter of werewolves. Humans don’t get to pin her inside her own home like prey run to ground.

“All right, class, our ongoing discussion of _Lord of the Flies_ ,” says Ms. Babcock, and Allison slides her book out onto her desk.

Allison’s good at English class, most of the time. It depends on the book. She’s always been better at words than at numbers, but sometimes the words don’t make sense.

She tries. It helps her blend in better, and that’s her job, to blend in. She got through the first two and a half Harry Potter books before she caught on to the werewolf subplot and had to put the third one down. She hadn’t trusted Dumbledore anyway.

“Now that we’ve passed the halfway point, it’s time for you to start thinking about your papers for this book,” says Ms. Babcock. “These papers will be worth 200 points towards your final grade. I’m sending a handout around now.”

Allison had tried again when she was eleven, when being the _only person around_ who’d never read Harry Potter made her just a little too strange. She skipped the fourth book and went straight to the fifth, because if she skimmed every other book in the series she could hold her own in a conversation, and that was all she needed.

She had to stop again, when she got to the thestrals. The magic school full of arrogant humans who thought they were good enough to tame werewolves, she could believe that, but she couldn’t make sense of how nobody could see the thestrals.

She was only eleven. She hadn’t _known_ yet. She hadn’t known.

“Take one copy, and pass the rest _back_ , Mr. Sullivan. This is a high school class, not a kindergarten, I shouldn’t have to explain it to you twice.”

Scott stretches his foot up under Allison’s chair and taps her ankle with his toe. She hides her smile with one hand.

The first time Allison watched somebody die, she was four and a half years old. It was one of the pack’s betas, the temporary ones who never lived to become family. The Alpha took one enormous, razor-clawed hand and tore the beta’s throat from his body. Allison remembers, distantly, the way the blood spattered across her doll’s dress. She doesn’t remember why it happened, but it doesn’t really matter now.

She could ask one of her parents, maybe her aunt, who’d only have been in high school herself back then, but Allison doubts they’d even remember it happening. It wouldn’t have stuck in Allison’s mind, except that it was the first time she was actually in the room for it.

The girl in front of Allison passes the stack of copies to her. Allison peels one off the top and turns in her seat to give the rest to Scott. He deliberately brushes his fingers over the back of her hand when he takes the stack. Allison winks at him. This time, Scott’s the one who blushes.

She has to remind herself sometimes, even now. Scott’s human. That means Scott’s probably never seen anybody die. Never been on a hunt. Never even stood witness to an execution. There are so many things she takes for granted that humans don’t even know.

The authors they read for English class write like they understand, sometimes. Shakespeare is full of people killing each other for reasons that make perfect sense to Allison and no sense at all to most of her classmates. Chuck Palahniuk’s books all seem perfectly reasonable except for how shockingly abnormal it’s clear they’re supposed to be.

They read _The Crucible_ when Allison was in seventh grade in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and not one of Allison’s public-school classmates had any idea what _god-fearing_ was supposed to mean. Religious people were supposed to love God, right? And what did love have to do with fear?

Allison doesn’t know how humans can write things that make so much sense, when nearly all of the ones she’s met are so _stupid_. Love has everything to do with fear. Of course humans would fear God. He’s the closest thing they have to an Alpha.

“If you remember from our schedule, we should all be finished reading the book by Monday, which means that I want your paper topics ready to hand in by class next Thursday,” says Ms. Babcock. “That’s one week to think about it, ladies and gentlemen, so please do yourselves a favor and don’t throw away twenty points off the top of your grade before you’ve even started by not having one to turn in.”

There’s a light poke, like the tip of a pencil, between Allison’s shoulderblades. Casually, she drops one hand down off her desk, fingers curling backwards around the slip of paper Scott presses into her hand.

_Do you have any idea what’s going on in this book?_ says Scott’s note. Allison has to hide her smile before Ms. Babcock sees it and wants to know why.

_It’s about getting taken over by the thrill of the hunt without having a strong enough leader to stop you,_ she writes back. _It’s okay. I’ll explain later._

She’ll have to explain everything to Scott, later. Not the power of the moon and the hunt, he’ll feel that for himself, but everything that being a werewolf _means_. When to run and when to yield. How to give obeisance to the Alpha. What are the duties to the pack, what are the rights. All the things that Allison’s grown up taking for granted, all the things humans somehow just don’t _know_.

Allison is an _Argent_ , daughter of the Argent pack. She was born with hair and claws and grew fangs in her mouth with her baby teeth. Two nights ago, she hunted a hunter in the middle of the night, helped to bring him down and dragged him back to the den to interrogate, to keep the whole pack safe. She may be last among her pack but she’s a werewolf and always has been, and she knows the things that Scott will need to know. She’ll train him herself. He’s not going to end up like one of those sorry executed betas, bleeding out all over the floor. Allison won’t let him.

Jackson’s waiting by the classroom door for Lydia, when the bell rings at the end of the period. Allison makes sure to catch his eye and smile when she walks past. Jackson blanches white and takes half a step backwards. She’s been wondering if he realizes it was her, that almost had him the other night. Either way, it’s a satisfying reaction.

 

Stiles doesn’t make it back to the Argent house until Saturday afternoon after lacrosse practice. That’s three full days of skittering around like he’s walking the edge of a fucking tightrope while Scott looks at him with increasingly confused and worried eyes. Only a day, thank god, of smiling at Allison and watching the way Jackson won’t come within ten feet of her. Every time Allison smiles back, Stiles feels it like Schrodinger’s knife edge: can’t tell if there’s an actual deadly weapon waiting there until it does or doesn’t stab you in the back.

Kate knows that Stiles knows that the Argents are werewolves. Stiles _thinks_ that Allison knows he knows, but Stiles doesn’t _know_ , and if she does know he knows then he doesn’t know what she thinks about whether or not he knows she knows he knows. Stiles does know where there’s a secret passage descending from the main Argent house into some kind of ex-hunter now-werewolf lair, but he doesn’t know what’s down there, and he doesn’t know whether the Argents know he knows it exists at all. Jackson clearly knows _something_ , and by extension Lydia seems to, but Stiles can’t risk trying to find out what they know, and whatever it is, Stiles is pretty sure they don’t know anything about him at all.

Yeah. It gives him a headache trying to keep track of it, too.

He doesn’t have _time_ for panic attacks, even though he’s been closer to the edge of one, these past few days, than any time since he was nine. He has work to do.

Stiles Stilinski isn’t a cop. Yet. If he doesn’t survive this, and possibly even if he does, he won’t ever be one. But he’s a cop’s son, and he knows how the world works. Protect first, serve second, everything else after that. Everybody is innocent until proven guilty. Be thorough, go slow, jump to conclusions but then find as much evidence as you can to back them up, and always file your paperwork.

The one great thing about being sixteen and doing all of his investigating in an entirely _unofficial_ capacity is that he gets to skip the paperwork.

He leaves his dad a text ( _always let your backup know where you’re going,_ which he breaks all the time when it comes to his dad but he can’t count on Scott for this one, no matter how much he wishes he could) and drives Scott all the way out to the Argent place with a deliberate smile on his face. It’s just like going on an undercover assignment when you’re not sure whether your cover’s been blown or not. Stiles’ dad was never real helpful at explaining how to handle situations like that. Apparently small-town cops don’t _have_ to know how to deal with possibly-deadly undercover fuck-ups. Well, thanks a lot, Dad, it’s a good thing Stiles knows how to multi-source his knowledge base and watched all of _The Wire_ back to back last summer break.

There’s no sign of, like, 60% of Allison’s family when they get to the house, which could mean just about anything. Allison’s family _lurks_. Kate shows up five minutes into their raid on the kitchen, which says better than anything that Allison’s terrifying mother isn’t home at all, because Stiles has never seen her willingly let anybody but Allison’s even-more-terrifying grandfather mess around in her kitchen when she’s there.

Undercover time. Stiles smiles at Kate like he means it, cranks up the babble about Coach Finstock and the lacrosse team’s chances to make sure no _other_ thoughts have time to slip through, and plays it as hard as he can. Kate doesn’t _look_ like she suspects. Scott and Allison just have their creepily synchronized ‘affectionately indulgent’ expressions on. It’ll do.

Stiles has been trying to teach himself to lie since he was about eight years old. He’s crappy at it. He’s way, way better at the art of misdirection, so he misdirects. He misdirects so dramatically he should get an award or something.

Scott and Allison duck upstairs to ‘go do homework’. Stiles doesn’t even ask before he rolls up his sleeves to start with the dishes. One, it puts off the time before he has to look Kate in the eye and pretend not to be worried that he should be afraid of her, and two, he isn’t even going to fake like he’s not afraid of Allison’s mom.

Kate doesn’t bother to help, and Stiles doesn’t bother to control the shiver when she comes up behind him at the sink and splays her hands out over his shoulders. “Such a good little houseguest,” she murmurs in his ear. “Why don’t you finish up here so we can go--”

“Kate,” snaps Allison’s also-terrifying dad from the kitchen doorway. “Leave him alone. You’re with me.”

“Can it wait?” Kate asks, and okay, that note of irritability is definitely new. Stiles thought that was only for him, when he said something particularly stupid.

“I’d rethink that tone of voice if I were you,” says Allison’s dad, and Kate pulls away.

“Okay!” says Stiles, turning off the water. “I’ll just go...interrupt Allison and Scott. At their homework.”

“That’s a good idea, Stiles,” says Allison’s dad, though he never takes his eyes off Kate, and _oh yeah_ , there’s something going on here. There weren’t any reports of hikers or campers getting mauled by wild animals after the full moon, but _something_ definitely went down. “You and Scott should head home. We’ll be going out.”

“Let me just get my--”

“ _Now_ , Kate,” snaps Allison’s dad. If Stiles didn’t know to look for it, he’d have missed the flicker of gold in his eyes. Yeah, he’s standing in a room with two pissed-off werewolves. Time to retreat.

Stiles is halfway up the grand staircase towards Allison’s room when he hears the front door thud shut. Then he stops and considers his options.

Most people wouldn’t believe that Stiles _stops_ sometimes before making choices, but he does. He totally does. Especially choices as important as this. It’s just that his brain runs so fast that Stiles’ well-considered pause tends to look, from the outside, like somebody else’s brief moment’s hesitation. Anyway, it’s not like there’s _that much_ to consider here. Aside from the fact that, just because he hasn’t _seen_ Allison’s more-terrifying-than-the-rest-of-the-family-put-together grandfather, doesn’t mean he’s not home. And what might happen if Kate and Allison’s dad come back before Stiles actually gets upstairs to pry Scott away from Allison’s loving embrace. And so on.

Still, _secret passage_. A chance at _actual answers_ to the things that have been weighing down on him for the past week. A golden opportunity on a golden platter.

Yeah, he pauses for all of about two seconds over that one before he’s scrambling back downstairs towards the broom closet. So he’s got an insatiable curiosity. Sue him. Just don’t, hopefully, rip his still-beating heart out or anything.

He manages to catch the vacuum before it clatters to the ground, this time, barely. He has to yank a little on the hook on the wall, now that he’s not _falling_ on it this time, but the hidden door swings right open. Stiles even swipes the flashlight off the shelf on his way down.

He hesitates at the top of the hidden staircase over whether to close the door back up behind him or not. It’s got a knob on the inside, though, and the knob seems to work, so...why not?

The descent into the basement below the once-Hale-now-Argent house is chilly, and a little slippery, and probably full of spiders that he doesn’t really want to go looking for in all the far corners of the ceiling, and all in all, exactly how a hidden staircase into a secret basement lair should be. Ten out of ten for appropriate thematic setting. Stiles is going to just focus on being creeped out, and the possibility of a spider dropping down from the ceiling onto his head or down the back of his neck, and not all the ways this could go terribly, badly wrong. There’s a reason horror movies are fun and the 10:00 evening news is sometimes just horrific.

Stiles had sex with the woman who murdered his chemistry teacher. Willingly. And yes, Harris was an asshole, and yes, Kate is hot, but. It means something. This shit is _complicated_. It is so much easier to just think about spiders.

There are bare light bulbs mounted up along the top of the walls when he finally gets down to the long, stone hallway, strung together by thick lengths of visible wire. No union-grade electrical work down in the underground lair, apparently. There’s a big breaker switch near the stairs. Stiles looks at it for a long time, weighing his options, before he flips it on and watches all the light bulbs flicker into life. Any werewolf probably would’ve been able to hear Stiles coming from the top of the stairs, if not halfway across the house. He might as well be able to see.

It’s a good choice, too, given that the first three doorways he checks through lead to more hallways. This is less of a basement and more of an underground labyrinth, and finding his way back is going to be hard enough without having to just rely on the flashlight. The first couple of actual rooms he looks in are empty, aside from some dangling chains, more bare lightbulbs, and all your basic trappings of a basement dungeon. They all kind of look like they’ve been there for years. Maybe the werewolf hunters really are the creepy bad guys in all this, after all.

He starts to let his guard down. Rookie mistake, but at least it doesn’t get him jumped by a werewolf. It just means he drops his flashlight all in a clatter of plastic on concrete when he pushes open the next door and sees the man hanging there.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles says. The guy’s head twitches sluggishly towards him. Oh, thank god. Stiles had not wanted to get up close and personal enough to figure out whether he was dead.

Although alive...might be worse. Because holy fuck, there is an alive guy strung up by his arms in chains in Stiles’ best friend’s girlfriend’s basement. And now Stiles has to figure out what to _do_ with him.

“Uh, hey, buddy,” he tries, stepping tentatively into the room. “How’s it hanging?” He winces a moment later, because _seriously_ , word choice much? “Hey there.”

The guy’s head rolls to the side, onto his shoulder. He’d probably be attractive, aside from the black eye and the obviously broken nose and the--oh, god, those look like burn marks on his torso, starting to turn black. Oh _god_. Why couldn’t it have been spiders. Inexplicably, the guy smiles, toothy and--apparently--sincere.

“Turn the voltage up,” he says. “All the way.”

Stiles spins around, trying to figure out what the hell the guy is even talking about, before he notices the electrical generator. He takes a step towards it, hesitates. “This?” he asks. There’s a whole panel of knobs and meters on the front, a mess of wires on the back; it looks like something straight out of the 1970’s. Hanging guy takes a ragged breath.

“Turn it up,” he rasps, “and flick the switch.”

Stiles isn’t looking at him; he’s tracing the tangle of wires across the floor, the one snaking up to the taped-on gauze pad on the guy’s side. “Um, I’m gonna go with _hell no_ ,” he snaps. “Oh my god, are you completely suicidal?”

The guy smirks at him, just a little unfocused. “Too much of a coward?” he asks.

“How about _not a murderer,_ thanks,” Stiles snaps. “Why are you even down here, anyway?”

“But you’re sleeping with one,” says the guy. He sags back down in his chains. “Kate can’t even do her own dirty work, so she sends you?”

“Hey, I don’t do anybody’s dirty work,” says Stiles. “Wait. How do you know about...”

“Stiles,” says the guy. “Right? Lydia’s mentioned you.”

“How do you know my name?” Stiles asks. “Wait, you know Lydia? Lydia _Martin_? Lydia Martin knows my name?” Stiles has to fumble through a moment of sheer confusion as he tries to figure out just which part of that makes the _least_ sense.

“Kill me before they come back,” the guy says.

It’s not the right sound for begging, at least, not the way Stiles ever would have pictured somebody begging for their life. It’s not desperate, not defeated, just low and rasping and matter-of-fact, and it makes Stiles want to throw up.

“You’re Derek Hale, aren’t you,” he says. “You’re a werewolf hunter.”

He leaves the generator behind--because _fuck no_ \--and steps closer. There’s a set of scratches down one of Derek’s bare legs that almost exactly matches the width and pattern of the lines Stiles finds on his own back, sometimes, in the mirror, but these are scabbed over and puffy with infection.

“You were trying to kill them,” Stiles says, and Derek says, “yes.”

No explanation, no defense. Derek’s ancestors built this place. Those chains are totally older than Stiles is. Hunting somebody down just because that somebody is a werewolf makes you a bad guy.

“Why didn’t they just kill you?” Stiles asks. “Why’d they bring you here?”

Stiles and Scott have netted so many childhood injuries over the years that he has a really good idea of what various kinds of wounds look like, a day or two afterwards. Stiles’ money is on Derek hanging here for the past three days. Ever since the full moon.

“Information,” says Derek, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No shit. What kind of information?” he asks. Derek smiles, again, about as inappropriately-timed as Kate’s smiles ever are but about a thousand times grimmer, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth, and doesn’t say anything.

Right. If Stiles couldn’t torture information out of somebody in three days, he’d send in an idiot kid to do the asking for him, too. Not that Stiles would ever spend three days trying to torture information out of somebody. _Jesus Christ._

“Okay,” he says, stepping back, because he needs to pace this one out. “Okay. What would my dad do.”

Stiles’ dad...

Stiles’ dad would not be _in this position_. If he were down in the terrifying dungeons underneath the Argent house, it would be with dogs and guns and an entire team of backup and a search warrant, and it would be because he already had reason to believe the Argents were the bad guys. If Stiles’ dad were here, he’d throw all of the Argents in jail, and then go visit Derek in the hospital and probably handcuff him to the bed rail until he was better enough to get carted off to jail, too, and let the judicial system sort them all out. Stiles’ dad isn’t sixteen, isn’t alone, has always had the whole weight of his badge and the entire criminal justice system behind him, and Stiles can’t be him.

Stiles isn’t a cop. His dad is, sure, and he always kind of wanted to be one day, but he’s sixteen years old. Anyway, his grandparents were ranchers. His mother was a _librarian._

Luckily, Stiles has more to look at here than just his dad. He’s got all five seasons of _The Wire_ , and all seven of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. He has all the coolness of the underground French resistance in World War II from the paper he was supposed to be writing for Econ last semester, and the Jedi code of conduct that he could maybe-possibly-yeah-totally recite from memory. He’s got Batman and Iron Man and okay, yes, Stiles is probably too young to qualify for the whole _Man_ thing in any way, but he has examples. He _knows_ what the good guys do.

Good guys kill to protect their families. They don’t chain a guy up and torture him for three days. Good guys don’t leave someone to beg the first stranger who passes by to electrocute him to death. They don’t do this.

“Okay, I retract my previous declaration,” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself, as he scans around the room for anything that looks like a key. Kate might not have wanted to carry it around with her, especially if more than one Argent comes down here to poke at the prisoner. It’s not like Derek’s in any shape to get himself out. “ _This_ is definitely the number one stupidest thing I have ever done.”

By the time he finds the key--a big, heavy iron thing hanging on a nail on the wall by the door--Derek has lifted his head up again and is staring at him in bleary confusion. “Okay, your family built this place, right?” Stiles asks. “Tell me you know another way out of here, because I do _not_ want to think about trying to drag your sorry ass out through the broom closet.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Derek says, rolling his head up to look Stiles, who has to stretch up on his toes to get a good look at the manacle. Stiles glances over at him, then ignores him, because okay, the suicidal werewolf hunter who managed to get himself into this situation to begin with does not get a vote here.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” says Stiles, scraping the key into the rusty lock. “And yet here I am, doing it anyway. So. You gonna help us get out of here, or do you want to die by vacuum cleaner? Because I’m pretty sure the one at the top of the stairs there is possessed.”

 

Lydia Martin makes it a point to be very sure about what she wants and what she’s doing, as much as possible, at all times. She hasn’t been very sure about much at all since Wednesday night, which is one of the reasons she’s _intensely_ sure that she does not, quite, trust Peter Hale yet. If at all.

He’s moved in completely over the past two days, suitcases full of clothing showing up in the closet of the apartment on the far left, milk and groceries and silverware appearing in the kitchenette of the apartment on the far right, like the whole row of units just makes him one enormous suite to be used at his whim. There’s new furniture in Derek’s living room, a big wingback armchair sitting next to the couch where Derek slept even after they acquired the use of an apartment with an actual bed. Generally speaking, this level furniture acquisition would indicate the intention to stay someplace. Lydia isn’t quite sure how she feels about that.

He’s left her flow charts up. Until those come down, Lydia’s having a difficult time thinking of the middle apartment as anything other than _Derek’s_ , regardless of the fact that he’s never coming back to it. She tried to take them down herself, yesterday after school, but Peter stopped her.

Peter _likes_ her flow charts. He thinks she shows _promise_. Lydia isn’t immune to flattery from a charming man. She just doesn’t trust it, either.

She’s back again. Jackson too, less because he wants anything more to do with werewolves or werewolf hunters or Hales on his Saturday night, and more because he refuses to let Lydia go anywhere alone. Lydia has so many tart comments about how much use Jackson would be in a dangerous situation, all caught just behind her tongue, because Jackson’s all she has now. Her parents certainly don’t count. They couldn’t understand a single thing about her at all, and that was before Lydia plotted a war and got somebody killed.

It’s Saturday night, and instead of throwing a party or going to one, or even just making her boyfriend take her out on a date, Lydia is here: sitting on a couch where a dead man used to sleep because he turned his apartment into a military outpost with no room for a bed, trying to make Peter Hale make sense. Lydia Martin doesn’t leave things half-done. She’s willing to cut her losses and retreat, pretend werewolves never existed and never, ever think Derek Hale’s name again, but she won’t do it blind. She wants to know exactly what she’s leaving behind her.

And if Peter knows how to defeat the Argents and finish off the project as planned, well, that’s an option Lydia’s willing to consider.

“You know, I had Derek making calls for me for two weeks, collecting research on the Argents,” Lydia says, and Peter, ensconced in his new armchair like a throne, smiles at her.

“And for that you have my greatest sympathy and admiration,” he says. “My nephew was never entirely fond of phones. I’m afraid his appreciation for technology stopped somewhere between the repeating rifle and the cordless circular saw. I did my best to bring him at least into the second half of the twentieth century, when we saw each other.”

“Hm, how nice,” Lydia says. “My point is, I don’t think I ever saw your name until we forged your paperwork to get the apartment. Why wouldn’t he call you?”

“Well,” says Peter, “this is a little embarrassing, considering the circumstances, but I’m not actually what you’d call a werewolf hunter. Probably Derek didn’t think I’d be interested.”

“I thought all Hales were werewolf hunters,” Jackson asks, before Lydia can arch her eyebrows and ask the same question more delicately. Peter’s smile turns sheepish, but his posture isn’t an ounce less poised. Lydia takes careful note.

“Well, most of my family certainly was,” he says. “Believe it or not, whatever Derek may have told you, not everything that isn’t strictly human is out to hunt people down and devour small children. I loved my family dearly, but Derek was very like his father. They were always a little too...straightforward, for my liking. A little too stubborn for their own good. I prefer a more sophisticated approach, when it comes to dealing with the strange and unknown.”

“Such as?” Lydia asks. She doesn’t particularly _like_ the way Peter talks about Derek, even if she agrees with all of it and more. It isn’t half as cultured as Peter is pretending to be, to speak ill of the dead.

“On the whole, I’d much rather learn, when the chance is afforded to me,” Peter says. “For example, before I came here--”

There’s a muffled flurry of pounding at the door. Peter cuts off; when Lydia glances over, he looks just as confused as she is.

“Now who could that--” Peter muses, mostly to himself, but Jackson’s already up off the couch before Lydia can grab his arm to stop him.

“Jackson!” Lydia hisses, and he pulls the door open.

“What?” he snaps at the person on the other side.

“Uh, hey, Jackson,” says a familiar voice. “Why am I not surprised to find you here. Tell me, is there any chance, say, you’ve been spending a lot of time lately hanging out with Derek Hale?” Lydia can’t see past Jackson’s body blocking the doorway, but there’s no mistaking Stiles Stilinski.

“Why?” Jackson demands. Lydia’s hand creeps over to the side table towards her gun, just in case.

“Well...” Stiles stalls. Peter glances at Lydia with eyebrows raised; she shakes her head once, sharply, and raises a finger to her lips. “Okay, you know what, making this kind of decision is so above and beyond the call of duty here. He’s unconscious in my car and I can’t get him up the stairs on my own, but this is the address he gave me after he spent basically the entire rescue process bitching about how under _no circumstances_ should I take him to the hospital, or he’d tear my throat out with his teeth. And then he passed out. Which really means I should’ve gone for the hospital thing, but what can I say.”

“Derek’s dead,” Jackson says, but Lydia’s clutching one hand to her mouth, now. It could be possible. It could be a trap. What kind of ridiculous trap, though, just to lure them down to the parking lot...

“No, dude, pretty sure you’re wrong there,” Stiles says. “I mean, unless he somehow died of his injuries in the five minutes it took me to actually _find_ you. But he was definitely breathing when I left him, so come on, somebody’s got to help me get him up here, and I’m _really_ pretty sure he shouldn’t be left slumped in the seat like that.”

“Allow me,” Peter says. Lydia’s impressed by how smoothly he takes hold of the door and shoulders Jackson aside, like Jackson’s not really in his way at all. She grabs her gun and stands up herself, since everybody else is crowded around the door, and there’s no sense having the only armed person being the only one still sitting down. Honestly, if Jackson were that worried, he could have at least grabbed a knife.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says. “I don’t know you.”

“Peter Hale,” Peter says. “I’m beginning to think that Derek never talks about me at all. And you?”

“I’m--Lydia! Hi, Lydia, you’re here too, and woah, that is a gun,” Stiles says, staring down at her left hand. Lydia flips her hair back behind her shoulder and waits for his eyes to come back up to her face.

“Stiles,” she says after a moment; he glances up, guilty. “Take Jackson down with you to get Derek. Bring him back up here. If this is a trap or anything goes wrong, Jackson will shoot you.” Lydia presses the gun into Jackson’s hand; Stiles watches it with wide eyes.

“Yeah, okay then,” Stiles says. “Right. The things I get myself into. Okay, come on, we’re parked right downstairs, and hopefully nobody’s called the cops on the bloody unconscious guy passed out in the passenger seat of my car yet.”

Lydia watches them go from the doorway, down the concrete stairs into the building courtyard.

“Do you trust him?” Peter asks mildly from her shoulder.

“Trust is a meaningless abstraction of a complex system of beliefs about another person’s action that may vary wildly from situation to situation,” Lydia says absently. “Jackson’s hated him since the third grade. We’ll hear it if he shoots.”

 

Derek wakes up. Eventually, that’s going to stop being a surprise.

The next real surprise is that he seems to be in a bed. The mattress underneath him is soft, there’s a pillow under his head, and the one thin blanket over him has him feeling warmer than he’s been since...

The Argents. The cell. That kid, the one Lydia and Jackson know from school, not brave enough to kill Derek and be done with it but _stupid_ enough to actually attempt a rescue mission. Derek vaguely recalls being shoved into some kind of vehicle. After that is anyone’s guess.

This isn’t a hospital. Derek knows hospitals, and the bed is too soft, the room too quiet. The pillow smells like hair gel, and a little like that awful lavender shampoo that mysteriously showed up in Derek’s bathroom one day, around the time Lydia started spending all-nighters in his living room working on her flow charts.

There’s something wrapped around his leg, and his whole torso feels like it’s encased in something or another. Okay. Time to face the fact that, against all odds, he appears to have been rescued. Derek opens his eyes.

“Well, there’s my boy,” says the last living person on Earth that Derek expects to hear. “Nice to see you rejoining the world of the conscious. Your little apprentices were getting worried. Well, inasmuch as you can call them apprentices, really. That Lydia’s a real firebrand, isn’t she?”

“Uncle Peter?” Derek asks, blinking to make sure his eyes are focusing right. The left eye won’t open all the way. He distantly remembers Gerard Argent backhanding him across the face, at some point over the past...how long has it been? He thinks he might be missing some teeth.

“In the flesh,” Uncle Peter says cheerfully. He’s sitting next to the bed in the spare apartment where Lydia and Jackson keep their stuff, in a chair that Derek’s pretty sure didn’t exist when he left, with a magazine lying open on his lap. Derek squints. He thinks that’s Lydia’s Vogue.

“Now, systems check,” Peter says briskly. “Name, date, president, that sort of thing.”

“Derek Hale,” says Derek. “Wednesday was March 31. Obama is president. Why are you here?”

“Well, that’s very nice, for the man who put you to bed and bandaged your wounds,” Peter says. “I added a little something extra, by the way, you’re welcome, you should be safe from all lasting consequences and organ damage. Just how many volts did she pump into you, out of curiosity?”

“I don’t remember,” Derek says, and lets his head fall back onto the pillow. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Well, I got a notice that my credit was being run for an apartment I certainly didn’t remember renting out in Beacon Hills, California, so I thought, why not go see the old homestead?” Peter says. “Say hello to Derek, while I’m there.”

Derek’s headache is throbbing in time with his pulse. He hurts so much less than he had in the dungeon that he can only imagine what kind of painkillers Peter might have pumped into him, magical or otherwise, but that just means it’s reduced enough that he can feel every individual ache or injury separately. “You came,” he grits out, “because of the _apartment_.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, I came to check in on you, too,” Peter clucks. “Lucky thing. You know, I don’t think that Jackson knows the first thing about first aid?”

“Laura _died_ ,” Derek says. “I called you fifteen times. I left messages.”

“And Laura made me promise not to answer,” Peter says. Derek’s stunned enough to actually try craning his head over to look at him again. An instant increase in the pound of his headache puts paid to that idea right away.

“Laura wouldn’t do that,” Derek says with certainty, and Peter tsks.

“Now, Derek, how well did you know your sister at the end? Quite honestly, I don’t think she trusted me around Beacon Hills at all. Too worried I’d want to actually _talk_ to the evil werewolves, instead of just slaughtering them.” He sighs. “And of course, I couldn’t refuse my niece her dying request, but when I found out you were renting property in my name...well, that’s the kind of thing a man can’t ignore. I considered it a cry for help. And look, here I am.” Peter spreads his arms, Derek catches the movement of it out of his side vision, the picture of guilelessness.

Derek has no idea whether Peter is lying or not. He’s never been able to tell. It’s only within the last couple of years, since he turned 18 and left Laura, that Derek’s begun to think that Uncle Peter might not actually know everything about everything in the universe, but he’s known that you can’t always _believe_ what Uncle Peter has to say for a very long time.

It doesn’t matter now. “Thank you,” Derek says. “For coming.”

“What, you think I’d stay away and miss all this?” Peter asks. “Daring rescues, blood vendettas, a hunt being entirely planned and run by teenagers--all we needs is a tragic forbidden love triangle, and I have my next three novels. I don’t suppose you’d consider falling desperately in love with the magnetic Miss Lydia Martin, would you?” Oh god. Derek had forgotten that being around Peter full-time inevitably meant being sampled as fuel for godawful bodice-ripper supernatural paperback novels. “No? What about that strapping young boy who rescued you? Any sparks there? The gay romance is very big these days, I think I could sell it.”

“He’s fucking Kate Argent,” Derek says blankly. “I asked him to kill me and then passed out in his car.”

“So there’s potential, then,” Peter says. “Never mind, I can always add something extra in edits.”

It’s not worth arguing. Derek read half of _Blood Moon Huntress_ once, and Laura couldn’t look him in the eye for months. Plenty of hunters have stacks and stacks of stories that sound straight out of the most cliched and overdone horror novels ever written, but only Peter Hale could turn those stories into marginally-selling novels without getting his throat cut for revealing everybody’s secrets to the masses.

He doesn’t even really need the money. Derek’s pretty sure he just does it for _fun_.

“What’s next?” Derek asks, to change the subject. “How many days was I gone, and what’s the plan from here?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” Peter says. “I’m fairly sure that if you ask Miss Martin, _next_ involves you healing from your injuries until you can actually get out of bed unaided. The Argents don’t appear to be going anywhere, so we can count that plan out, inspired as it might have been. Personally, I think I’ll be going to Macy’s as soon as somebody else arrives to wipe your fevered brow and all that _caring_ stuff that being tortured for three days entitles you to.”

“Macy’s?” Derek has to ask. He doesn’t want to ask. It’s Uncle Peter, you never want to ask. But Derek is still a little dizzy with pain, and not eating or sleeping nearly enough over the past--was it only three days?--and probably with whatever Uncle Peter gave him while he was asleep. He has to ask.

“Well, you’re sleeping in my bed,” says Uncle Peter. “And since you don’t appear to even have one it’s not like we can just switch, so I thought I’d do a little furniture shopping. Liven the place up a little. How do you feel about throw rugs?”

This is why Laura hadn’t wanted Uncle Peter to take Derek’s calls. This is why Derek should have just decided from the start to handle things entirely on his own. He’d never had anything but utter respect for his grandmother, but he’s been wondering for a while now if Uncle Peter somehow ended up with a hefty dose of fae blood from somewhere or another.

“We’re in the middle of a war, Uncle Peter,” Derek says tiredly. The room is starting to swim before his eyes, so he closes them again.

“Well, that’s no reason to live like animals.” Derek hears the rustle of magazine pages; Peter settling in again. “Youth is wasted on the young. Live a little, Derek. Have fun. Get naked with a woman who isn’t in the process of applying high-voltage electrodes to your body. Unless you’re into that, of course, but even then, safewords. Buy a few throw rugs.”

The wisdom, Derek thinks sourly as he drifts back towards unconsciousness, of Peter Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: torture, and the aftermath of violent physical torture; suicidal ideation; discussion of past events involving murder and implied child abuse; and Peter Hale.


	7. Chapter 6: The things we laid do not amount to much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the only scene in the entire story that actually disturbed me to write. As always, full warnings in the end notes, but we've got a warning for domestic violence here that I'm not even going to hide down there.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Future Foe Scenarios', by the Silversun Pickups.

Allison has never, in seventeen years, seen her grandfather this angry with a member of their own family before.

She’s not sure what she’s meant to _do_ , so she’s been stepping quietly and trying to breathe even quieter, since Mom came home to find Stiles gone and Scott still here, and the Alpha checked the basement. The Alpha doesn’t seem to blame Allison. Maybe he should, maybe at some point he’ll remember that Allison was the only member of the family home when Stiles snuck downstairs and stole away with Derek Hale, that she should have heard him, would have, if she hadn’t been so caught up in Scott. Aunt Kate would draw the Alpha’s attention for Allison. But every time Allison catches even the glancing edge of the Alpha’s fury, just passing through a room with him, it freezes her own fear in her throat until she can barely breathe, let alone speak.

She’s never seen Aunt Kate scared before. Allison would have said, before this, that there’s nobody in the world Aunt Kate could be scared of, not even Allison’s own dad if it ever came down to a fight. Of course the Alpha’s the exception.

Kate’s been slinking around corners since last night, and her smile’s gone pale and thin. Allison hasn’t talked to her. Allison doesn’t dare.

Nobody in the house has said much to anyone since Dad drove Scott home last night. The Alpha waited until the car passed out of even a werewolf’s hearing range, to give voice to his rage. Aunt Kate _cowered_. Even Allison’s mom looked shaken. Allison’s mother can’t even be shaken in the middle of an earthquake.

It’s Sunday night. The Alpha is holding court over family dinner. Allison doesn’t want to leave her room, doesn’t want to go. The last time she saw her grandfather truly angry, somebody bled. The only times she’s ever seen him as angry as this, someone bled and bled and didn’t stop bleeding until they didn’t have a heart left pumping in their chest.

“Allison,” her father says from her bedroom door, and Allison goes.

Her mother cooked, tonight, not her grandfather. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and biscuits and salad and peas. Allison keeps her eyes on her plate.

“Thank you, Victoria,” her dad says. “It smells delicious.”

“You’re welcome,” her mother murmurs. When Allison dares dart a glance to the side, her mother’s eyes are cast down at the table, too. She doesn’t even look at Aunt Kate.

“Well, what are we all waiting for?” the Alpha asks. “Let’s dig in.”

Allison eats mechanically, for something to do with her hands, and because the Alpha told everybody to eat and hasn’t said ‘stop’ yet. Nobody’s making conversation. She wants this over with. She’s scared of what ‘over with’ might mean.

The Alpha wouldn’t do to Kate what he’s done to other betas. Not Aunt Kate. She’s _family_. Betas come and go, but Argent is _family_ , and he wouldn’t kill a member of his own family. Not for one little mistake.

Allison’s dad was already angry with Kate even before last night, for taking Allison on a hunt instead of right back to the house like she was supposed to. That was partially Allison’s fault too. The Alpha didn’t seem to object, yesterday, but he might have changed his mind. Alphas get to.

Nobody says a word until the plates are empty. Not one word. Allison can’t eat much, anyway.

By the time she’s been reduced to nudging a few last peas back and forth on her plate, her mother’s clearly had enough. “Well, then,” Allison’s mom says, standing up briskly, empty plate in hand. “I’ll just clear those out of our way--”

“Sit down, Victoria,” says the Alpha. “They’ll wait. We have things we need to talk about.”

Slowly, Allison’s mom sinks back down into her chair. 

“So,” the Alpha says, settling back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “It seems to me that we have quite a few problems on our hands. Chris tells me there’s at least one more known hunter in town, staying near Derek Hale’s apartment. We still don’t know what Wednesday night was meant to achieve, and we’ve lost our one opportunity to find out. It seems the sheriff’s son has turned on us, and on top of that, one member of our pack can’t even be trusted to do her job any more. That’s quite a load for an Alpha to contend with, wouldn’t you say, Christopher?”

“Yes, sir,” says Allison’s dad. He’s not supposed to look uncomfortable any more than her mother’s supposed to look shaken, but he looks uncomfortable tonight.

“So how do we go about solving these problems?” the Alpha asks. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Allison has no suggestions. It’s not Allison’s job to make suggestions. Allison just has to look at her peas and stop fidgeting.

“Nobody?” he asks. “Nobody at all?”

“Move the timetable up,” says Allison’s father abruptly. “Kill the sheriff’s boy now, before this goes any further. The sheriff too, if we have to. Finish off the hunters as fast as possible while the town’s in chaos.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Christopher,” says the Alpha. “I made a promise to my granddaughter that she’d have her lover as one of us, and I, for one, intend to keep my promise. Now, what sort of chance do you suppose we’d have at winning Scott’s loyalty if we slaughter his best friend before he even knows what we have to offer? There was a reason we’d planned to wait until the full moon.”

“You could--” Allison says, and then bites down on her tongue, hard enough to taste blood. She hadn’t meant. She only...

“Yes?” the Alpha asks. “Speak up, Allison. We’re waiting.”

Her fingers clench bruises into her thighs through her jeans. “We could still use the same plan,” she says. “If we turn Scott early. We can still provoke him into killing Stiles, even without the full moon. It might be even more powerful that way, because if Scott sees what his instincts can do without an Alpha’s control, he’ll be ready to submit to the pack right away before the moon makes it even harder.” Allison holds herself very still and waits for the Alpha’s response.

“That’s a good plan, Allison,” the Alpha says approvingly, and Allison lets herself relax just a fraction of an inch. “Are you sure Scott will kill at the new moon? He’s young, but he’s no pushover.” It’s the most complimentary thing the Alpha’s said about Scott yet.

“He will,” Allison promises. He will. She’ll make sure of it, if she has to kill Stiles herself and convince Scott he did it in a newly-bitten blackout. She knows what happens, when members of this family break their promises.

Well, actually, no. She doesn’t know what happens, yet. Aunt Kate hasn’t looked up from the table once all night. Allison doesn’t know what happens when an Argent fails the pack badly enough, but she knows better than to let herself find out.

“Well, then,” says the Alpha. “We may have the beginnings of a plan yet. Allison’s got a good head on her shoulders. She might grow to replace you, Katie.”

He says it convivially, a few steps from jovial. Allison freezes in her chair, all the same.

“Now,” says the Alpha. “I can’t help but notice that nobody’s offered a suggestion for our other problem. What do I do when a member of my pack no longer seems capable of doing as she’s told?”

Kate’s head jerks up, like she wants to argue, and Allison wants to _cry_. She doesn’t say anything. At least she doesn’t say anything. Then again, Allison doesn’t know. Maybe it’s too late for Aunt Kate to make things any worse.

“I know what I’d do with a normal beta,” says the Alpha, “who couldn’t keep control of a sixteen-year-old boy. Who told him about our secret, our _pack_ , despite being under orders to keep it from him. Who let that boy turn against us, become a danger to this pack and this family. I know what I’d do with a beta who had three full days to interrogate a prisoner and failed to get any useful information out of him whatsoever, and then let that prisoner escape with only the aid of a sixteen-year-old _child_ she was supposed to be keeping out of trouble in the first place.” His voice isn’t cheerful any more. He hasn’t raised it, yet. It’s still sharp enough to cut. “Can you tell me, Katherine, what I’d do with a beta like that?”

Kate straightens her spine, raises her head, high enough to bare her entire throat and neck. Allison has to watch her out of the corner of her eye. For once in her life Kate’s not smiling, but Allison’s never seen her look more brave. “You would kill them,” she says, strong and clear. “For betraying the pack.”

“I would,” says the Alpha. “For betraying the pack, betraying _me_ , for endangering _this family_.” He’s shouting. He leans forward, his fist bangs on the table, and Allison knows, without daring to look, that his eyes are flashing red. “I would kill any wolf who dared call themselves a part of this pack and then let me down this badly. You _know I would_ , Katherine, so give me one good reason why I shouldn’t do so right now.”

Kate’s trembling. Maybe. Maybe it’s only Allison.

“I’ve never let you down before,” Kate says. “Not in more than twenty years. It’ll never happen again.”

The Alpha’s chair scrapes ear-splittingly loud on the floor as he stands up. He’s the only one who moves.

They always sit the same way, at every table, in every house they’ve ever had. The Alpha takes the head of the table. Allison’s mom sits to his left-hand side, Allison’s dad to his right. Allison sits next to her mother. Kate sits across from her, next to Allison’s dad. Anyone else, dinner guests, extra betas, fill in around them or down at the other end of the table, but they’ve always held those spots, for as long as Allison can remember.

The Alpha circles around behind Allison’s father’s chair, a slow walk, and he’s the only one who moves.

“You’re my only daughter, Kate,” he says. “I remember the day you were born. Six pounds, seven ounces, all pink and squirming. Everything you ever learned was at my knee, or your mother’s.” He’s behind Kate’s chair, now. He sweeps her hair back behind her shoulder, gently, away from her neck.

“You’ve failed me, Katie, and it’s the last time,” says the Alpha. His fingertips are resting against her pulse point, claws extended and just barely touching the surface of her skin. Allison can’t look away, can’t bear to _look_ , and for some reason all she can think is, _we’ll never be able to save any of the leftovers for lunch_.

Kate’s chin is up. Her eyes are open. Allison can’t tell what she’s looking at. Allison can’t look at her parents at all.

“I’m sorry,” Kate says, half a whisper.

He holds his claws there, and Allison watches, Allison can’t not watch, the way Kate’s throat bobs against it, the way her pulse flutters, and the Alpha’s claws, and...

Fine drops of blood spatter across the table, and Kate falls forward, gasping, one hand on her throat, but gasping, still _breathing_ , and Allison can’t even manage to contain a little moan of relief and surprise. When Kate pulls her hand away, Allison can see the marks--four long scratches, one for each of the Alpha’s claws, deep enough to pierce the skin but just shallow enough not to kill. They’re Alpha’s marks. They’ll take days to heal, maybe even weeks. They’ll scar, if the Alpha wants them to.

“This never happens again, Kate,” the Alpha says. Kate is too busy gasping to reply.

 

 

Scott _knew_ this whole Kate thing was bad news. He _knew_ it. Nobody ever listens to him. Next time Stiles tries to do something that feels this weird, Scott’s going to change everybody’s name and ask his mom for advice like he wanted to do in the first place, whether Stiles likes it or not.

But Scott _didn’t_ ask for advice, and now it’s all a mess, and Scott’s stuck in the middle. Just like he knew was going to happen. Why does nobody ever _listen_ to him about these things?

Scott hasn’t even heard from Stiles since he just took off on them Saturday night, except for one text on yesterday saying he had way too much homework. Allison’s dad had to drive Scott home. Twenty minutes trapped alone in a car with _Allison’s dad_. Stiles owes Scott so unbelievably big.

“You’re sure your aunt isn’t maybe overreacting, just a little?” he tries one last time, as Allison pulls into the school parking lot Monday morning.

“You didn’t see her this weekend,” Allison says. “I don’t know what he said to her, but I’ve never seen her that upset.” It’s basically exactly what Scott was afraid she’d say. Stiles isn’t _mean_ , not on purpose, not like Jackson can be sometimes, but once in a while when he gets angry he says really stupid shit. Scott’s used to ignoring it and moving on, just like Stiles ignores the stupid shit he says or does when he gets angry, but if Stiles said something really bad to _Kate_...

“I’ll talk to him,” Scott promises. _That’s_ going to be a fun conversation.

Stiles has been avoiding Scott so hard that Scott’s a little surprised to even see him in first period English class. He’s got the same circles under his eyes that he gets when he doesn’t sleep for, like, three days, but usually when Stiles accidentally spends all weekend having some video game marathon and forgetting to sleep, he’s either with Scott, or spends the whole time texting Scott really random shit at one in the morning.

“Dude,” Scott says, and catches Stiles’ arm, over in one corner of the class where they don’t even usually _sit_ , while everyone else filters in. “What the hell, where’ve you been?”

Stiles looks at him, blank-eyed. “You should sit down,” he says. “Before Ms. Babcock starts class.”

“Stiles, what the--”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” says Ms. Babcock, and fixes Scott with a stern enough look that he kind of has to slink back to his desk, or else she’ll probably flay him right on the spot. “How were your weekends? We should all have finished _Lord of the Flies_ in time for today, so let’s get some reactions from the class, now that you’ve seen the work as a whole. Mr. McCall, would you care to start?”

Scott seriously has no idea what was going on for the last hundred pages of that book. “Um...” he says.

Class kinda...doesn’t really get better from there.

When the bell rings, Scott’s ready. Stiles has his books and his bag together the instant class lets out, but so does Scott, and because Stiles switched seats so he could lurk in the back corner of the classroom like some kind of antisocial creeper, Scott’s closer to the door. He lurks right outside the classroom for like five seconds until Stiles finally makes it out. This time, when he grabs Stiles’ arm, he doesn’t let go.

“Seriously, Scott, not cool, I’ve got to be in geometry,” Stiles protests, but Scott just tugs him down the hallway into some empty classroom that only ever gets used for the seniors doing some AP class. “If I get a detention for this--”

“I’ll take the heat with your dad,” Scott promises, and closes the door behind them. “So are you going to tell me why the hell you’ve been _avoiding_ me all weekend?”

Stiles sighs, and his whole posture just folds down. He looks _really_ tired. “I kinda had some stuff going on, Scott. You didn’t need to deal with it.”

“Um, yeah, I kinda do,” Scott points out. “Number one, you’re my best friend, and number two, when your _stuff_ is all about my girlfriend’s aunt, it kind of already affects me, whether you want to tell me about it or not. So are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

Stiles fidgets one toe on the ground, plays with the end of one hoodie string like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes. “What’d Allison tell you?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Scott says. He slumps back against the closed classroom door to match Stiles’ posture. “She just said you guys had a fight, and Kate was really upset. Did you take something? I think Allison thought Kate said you took something.”

Stiles’ head jerks up. He stares at Scott with...Scott doesn’t even know _what_ emotion, and when he laughs, it’s this harsh, disbelieving sound that isn’t like Stiles at _all_.

“Did I _take_ something?” Stiles asks. “She seriously had the fucking...she actually said that. To you. Allison said that Kate and I had a fight, and Kate was upset, and I _took something_.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “So why don’t you tell me your side of the story, so we can smooth things over and make everybody a little less upset?”

“No,” Stiles says immediately. “It’s not your problem, Scott. This is between me and Kate, and it’s not about you. Don’t worry about it.”

Scott shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Don’t worry about it’ sounds great in _theory_ , but Stiles should know it’s not that easy. “Can’t you at least give back whatever you took? Allison says Kate’s really upset.”

“Yeah, I bet she is,” Stiles mutters, and Scott frowns. He’d been sure Allison had gotten it wrong, at first, but if Stiles really did get pissed enough to steal something major from the Argents...

“Stiles, come on,” he says. “That’s Allison’s family.”

“I can’t, Scott,” Stiles snaps. “It’s not the kind of thing you can return, okay, they never should have even had _it_ in the first place, and I’m not talking about it with you.”

Scott blinks. “Was it drugs?” he asks. It doesn’t make that much sense, but neither does anything _else_ he can think of.

Stiles sags. “No, it wasn’t drugs,” he says, back down a little quieter than a normal inside volume. “Look, just drop it, Scott, okay?”

“Why?” Scott asks. “Come on, just tell me.”

“You love Allison, right?” Stiles asks.

“Um, yeah,” Scott says. “She’s kind of the one, you know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know. You’ve told me enough.” He kicks at a pencil somebody dropped on the ground until it rolls away under another desk. “You’ve never been afraid of her, right?” Stiles asks. “Not even for, like, ten seconds. Not even for a _millisecond_.”

“What? No,” says Scott. “Why would I be _afraid_ of her?”

“I don’t know, just, like, you thought she could hurt you,” says Stiles. “Or somebody else. You never thought that even for a second, right? Because you love her, and because Allison is actually--” He cuts himself off.

“Is what?” Scott asks. “Come on, finish your sentence.”

“She’s nothing,” Stiles says tiredly. “She’s fine, Scott. She loves you, and you love her, and I’m not going to be the one who ruins that for you. You need to marry her, and get her the hell away from her crazy family, and have a dozen adorable fat babies for me to spoil rotten when I come visit. That’s it, all right? It’s done.” He pushes off the desk he’s been leaning on, and jerks his head out towards the hallway behind Scott. “Come on, we’re like ten minutes late already, and you don’t need to get on Weinberg’s bad side.”

“But,” Scott starts, except he doesn’t really know where to go after that. Stiles just looks at him, eyebrows raised, waiting.

“Any time, now, Scott,” he says.

Scott sighs and opens the classroom door. He tried, even though he doesn’t think he did any good. At least it doesn’t sound like Stiles wants to make trouble for him and Allison? It’s just all a _mess_ , now. Why can’t things ever be easy?

Plus, Mr. Weinberg gives Scott a detention _and_ makes him demonstrate half of the weekend’s homework problems on the board, for coming in ten minutes late. Scott hates Mondays.

 

 

Allison Argent is back in school again like nothing ever happened. Lydia’s skin crawls every time they’re in the same room together.

Last week was one thing. Last week, Lydia had tried to kill her and her whole family, and Allison or somebody related to her killed Derek right back. Last week, Lydia didn’t look anywhere but her notebook when Allison was in the room, and twice she dragged Jackson out of history class to go and sit in the lacrosse bleachers and argue about the team’s chances, instead of making him sit there with Allison right behind him.

Last week, Lydia was prepared to skip the funeral Derek wouldn’t have, to curl her hair, and to get on with her life. Dead is dead. Dead isn’t _burned_ and _bleeding_.

Logically, murder should be worse than most, if not all, other things. Derek will heal from this. He’s already up and out of bed, probably more than he ought to be. Jackson and Lydia had written him off for dead, and the Argents had even given him enough food and water to stay alive. Logically, this isn’t _worse_.

Logic has no place in it. Murder is murder; Lydia had been ready and willing to commit that herself, and with little enough justification that it should probably worry her a little about herself. Allison makes Lydia’s skin crawl.

She’s kept an eye on Stiles. He’s still alive, at least. Unless he comes back to Derek’s apartment, he’s not Lydia’s responsibility. She’s got too many of those already.

In the past week since showing up, Peter has acquired three armchairs, a new sleek leather couch for the apartment he’s claimed as his own, a queen-sized bed, a full dining set for the apartment where they’re keeping Derek while he’s still recovering and needs his own bed, three modern-looking lamps, and several bookshelves. If not for Lydia’s suspicion that Peter considers even _staying_ at that particular apartment complex to be ‘slumming it’--which she agrees with, privately, and Jackson’s been agreeing with loudly for at least as long as Lydia’s been around to hear him--she’d be wondering if he ever intends to leave.

It does make for much easier planning discussions, at least. There’s somewhere to _sit_ , which is a tenfold improvement instantly. Lydia likes the leather couch. Of course, Peter sits nowhere else when everybody’s over, so Lydia sticks to the computer chair he hasn’t bothered to replace yet, but as an aesthetic decision she respects it.

Jackson’s been staying standing. Derek badly looks like he _wants_ to be up and pacing, but his ribs won’t get him very far.

Peter’s the only one who looks completely comfortable, one arm stretched out along the back of the couch, smiling like planning murder is his idea of a pleasant game. Lydia would mistrust him for that, but Peter has an uncanny knack for reminding her just how much she enjoyed plotting out the traps for the full moon attack, and while Lydia doesn’t generally mind being a hypocrite, she always gets the feeling Peter _knows_.

He’s been nothing but kind to her. If Lydia’s mistrusting people for that, now, then she’s been around Jackson and Derek for too long.

“You’re sure there hasn’t been any movement?” Derek says, for the fifteenth time. Peter’s been taking Derek’s recuperation on himself, for the past several days. Lydia is under the impression that this morning, Derek was finally allowed to go all the way downstairs and across the street to the grocery store. She refrained from asking whether Derek held on tight to Peter’s hand and looked both ways at the stop sign. Derek used to make three or four patrols a week, through the woods near the Argent mansion. He’s going stir crazy. She can sympathize, as far as it goes.

“Nothing on the video cameras, nothing on the finances,” Lydia confirms. “They aren’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe because your plan _sucked_?” Jackson bites out. He hasn’t gotten over being resentful for that yet.

“Or because you two insisted on going out there, and _somebody_ left Derek to be caught on his own, so they had every reason to believe we were nothing but a bunch of amateurs who got lucky rather than an elite strike force who took them completely by surprise?” Lydia bites back. Yes. Her plan didn’t work. If Jackson keeps insisting on rubbing it in, she has plenty of ammunition of her own to throw after it. _She’s_ not the one who abandoned Derek to the wolves.

“The problem is, we haven’t followed up,” says Derek. “It’s still a good plan, but it needs more force behind it. They’re still uncertain. We need to push hard, now, to let them know we’re still here.”

“Just what are you proposing?” Peter asks. Derek’s hands are balled into fists on his knees.

“A sneak attack on the house,” he says. “If we hit it just at dawn, they’ll all be home and won’t see us coming. We set up a random series of attacks, any time of night or day, until they don’t know when we’re going to hit next.”

Lydia stands up abruptly.

“I need my flow chart supplies,” she says. “Derek, come help me get them. I’m not tall enough to reach the cabinet where you put my markers.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Seriously, can we go without the flow charts for _one day_ , Lydia,” he says.

“Hmph. Well, that’s why I’m asking Derek to come with me,” Lydia says, flipping her hair over one shoulder and turning her back to Jackson like this isn’t a completely transparent ploy to get Derek in private. “Derek?” she says, and holds out her hand.

“Doesn’t do to keep a woman like that waiting,” Peter says. Derek ignores Lydia’s hand and pushes himself to his feet, slower than he ever would have, before. She's patient. It won't make her any less suddenly furious, to wait.

Derek's apartment hasn't changed at all in Peter's redecorating spree, probably because without Derek, nobody is bothering to use the makeshift gym in the bedroom or even go in. Lydia's flow charts are still tacked up all over the walls, the one about proper patrol procedure, the one about presumptive chains of command within the Argent pack structure, the three-tiered decision tree that led to Operation Shock and Awe in the first place. Jackson’s right. The flow charts are flawed. She needs to rely on something better.

Never mind. Lydia has more pressing things to worry about right now. She bends down over her pads of oversized paper and waits for the click of the door behind Derek.

“So tell me,” she asks, not bothering to turn, casually as anything. “Exactly how suicidal are you, Derek?”

She has to turn to catch his reaction to that--freezing in one spot, halfway to the kitchen cabinets where he’s been keeping office supplies and spare ammunition instead of healthy nonperishables and actual cookware. That’s Derek for you. Split second reflexes in a fight, and absolutely no idea how to deal with the rest of the world out of one.

“Hmm?” Lydia prods, taking a step closer. “I’m asking because it’s going to affect planning, one way or another. So? Are we going to come over one day and find out you’ve slit your wrists in the bathtub, or are you planning on doing this the long and drawn-out way, because you’d rather deliberately engineer impossible situations than get it over with?”

Derek’s _glare_. Lydia’s seen dozens of shades of Derek’s glare over the past few weeks, but none of them quite as furious as this. She almost takes a step back, catches herself at just the last moment. She can’t give ground here. _Somebody_ needs to leash Derek in.

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” he says, taking his own step forward, leaning in, looming until the near-foot difference in their heights feels like a yard, “bring up Laura again.”

Lydia tilts her head, raises her eyebrows. “Interesting reaction,” she says. “I didn’t mention Laura. You did.”

She does know how Derek’s sister died. He mentioned it, in passing, and Lydia wasn’t going to let that kind of ghost hang over a project this potentially deadly without doing her research. It would be disingenuous to say Lydia _forgot_ , because Lydia doesn’t _forget_ , not things like that, but it hadn’t been her point. Maybe it’s just that when Lydia thinks about _Derek_ and _suicide_ in the same sentence, she inevitably thinks about the coroner’s report she got Danny to hack out of the BHPD database for her. Maybe Derek thinks the same thing.

Maybe not. She found Talia and Lucas Hale’s obituaries, while she was looking. There’s too much to read between the lines for Lydia to be sure about anything, but she’s under the impression that hunters do not actually ever die in simultaneous freak bear maulings and shotgun accidents. Lydia’s under the impression that hunters don’t tend to live very long at all.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing--” Derek starts, working on his loom, while Lydia stands unimpressed beneath him.

“Trying to save your life?” she suggests. “No, silly me, that’s a completely thankless task, isn’t it? I’m trying to save _Jackson’s_ life. Oh, and maybe Peter’s, too, he seems nice enough. Obviously my own. I like being alive. You can’t get a great deal at one of Macy’s off-season sales when you’re dead.”

“Then why are you even here?” Derek demands. “This is a dangerous job.”

“You know, I kind of figured that out before I signed on,” Lydia says. “Something to do with all the guns, and the werewolves with claws, and the fact that the entire Argent family is made up of serial killers. But with the way you keep coming up with plans seemingly _just_ to put yourself in harm’s way, you seem to have either a deeply sexual fetish for life-threatening situations, or the kind of deathwish I can’t really help you fix. And that’s kind of a problem for me.”

“I don’t have a death wish,” Derek insists forcefully, stepping forward again, like closing the distance is supposed to be _threatening_ to her. Lydia’s not afraid. He’s _Derek_. She figures the chances of him hitting her are roughly on par with the chances of him finding inner peace and leaving Beacon Hills tomorrow without ever worrying about the Argents again.

“Oh really?” Lydia asks. “Then the fact that you just _had_ to be in the woods last week, even though our traps were the only thing they were afraid of and your presence actually brought the plan down, that’s just a coincidence?”

“Maybe Jackson was right,” Derek sneers. “Maybe it wasn’t a very good plan.”

“You agreed to it,” Lydia pointed out. “And whether it was any good or not, going out there didn’t make it any better. Deciding on making random and unexpected incursions right on enemy territory? Really? You expect us to believe you’re planning to come out of that _alive_?”

“If it’s the only way--” Derek begins.

“It’s not,” Lydia says. “Let me make this simple for you. Jackson almost died last week. If you get Jackson killed, I walk.”

“Fine,” Derek says, but Lydia’s not done.

“I said, I walk,” she continues. “No vengeance, Derek. If you die, I’m not going to go looking for revenge for you, and neither is Jackson. The Argents will just all get away with everything they ever did, and live to bother some other town and decimate some other hunting family, because if you die, nobody else is going to do a thing.”

“If you want out of this,” says Derek, “there’s the door.”

“That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?” she asks. “Revenge? This isn’t some complicated plan to get them to kill you in a way that satisfies your bizarre hunter honor, right? Because if you’re really that eager to die, well, why wait?” Lydia raises her eyebrows at him. She’s not even sure if she’s bluffing. Better to believe that she’s not. “I’ll help. There are at least sixteen different crossbows, guns, and other projectile weapons in this apartment alone. If you want me to shoot you, I will. Right here, right now, and then the rest of us can all go home.”

“Are you threatening me?” Derek asks. He sounds more amused than scared, but that’s fine. Lydia’s not stupid enough to think she could get anywhere threatening his _life_.

“It’s not really a threat if it’s what you want, is it?” she asks. “I’m just making my position very clear. Because if you actually _care_ about defeating the Argents? If your whole bloody quest for revenge actually means anything to you? Maybe you’d better start worrying about your own self-preservation.” Lydia wants Derek alive. She refuses to be ashamed of that fact. “If you die, nobody will go after them. Not even Peter. You know I can make sure of it. Nobody at all.”

Boys aren’t so hard to manipulate, after all.

 

This weekend, her grandfather said. Scott will spend the night at the Argent house on Friday and Saturday, and Stiles will be dead by next Monday. Mom’s already got a bolthole lined up for them in Nebraska. They’ll deal with the hunters next week and be done with Beacon Hills forever.

Scott will be fine, with the hunters. He’s got too many human ideas about death and killing, but when you’re taking down hunters it always looks like self-defense. He won’t blame the Alpha for that. Not while he’s going to be wracked with guilt over killing his best and only friend. It will work.

Scott will be fine, with Stiles. All Allison needs to do is provoke him, Scott or Stiles or both of them, and Scott won’t be able to stop himself from killing. Newly-bitten betas can never back down from a fight. She’s seen it before. All she needs to do is make sure that there’s a fight brewing, by Friday, and it will be fine. It will work.

Scott will be fine, taking the bite. It’s the only thing Scott’s going to have any real say in at all, but it will be _fine_. He’ll want it. Allison has all her arguments in place. It will cure his asthma. It will make him so much more special than any of the humans scurrying around. It will let them stay together. He’ll say yes. _It will work._

Allison doesn’t pay attention in a single class, all week.

It will work, it will work, it will work, Aunt Kate is alive and Scott’s going to be hers so soon, and the hunters are just hunters, just like they’ve dealt with before, just like Louisiana and Colorado and Maine and New Jersey. Even though Allison’s dad still can’t figure out how many hunters are in town, now, or how they managed to set up the traps and attacks for last Wednesday night without any tripwires or triggers anywhere to be seen. It will _work_ , and all Allison has to do is make sure that Scott is where she’s promised he’ll be, that he reacts how she’s promised he’ll react.

Allison sneaks in through Scott’s bedroom window on Thursday night, quarter to twelve, while his mom is off at work. She could ring the doorbell, but she can tell from outside Scott’s window that he’s already most of the way asleep, and this way she can drop her jacket over the back of his chair, leave her bra and jeans on the floor, and slide in under Scott’s sheets like she belongs here. He’s awake enough to realize what’s going on by the time Allison tangles her bare feet with his. There’s just enough ambient light through the window that she can see the shape of smile before he tries to press his lips against hers and ends up somewhere around the tip of her nose.

“Down here, you,” Allison grins into Scott’s chin and weaves her fingers through his hair, tugs his head down until his lips seal properly over hers, wet slide in the half-blind dark. Scott curls an arm around her waist, pulls her in close. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers, she’s down to t-shirt and panties, and if he slides his hand around like he’s leading towards sex tonight, Allison will follow gladly, but for once she mostly just wants to cuddle. To sleep with Scott curled around behind her. To convince herself that this is all going to be _okay_.

“Love you,” Scott murmurs against her lips. “How’d you get in?”

“Window,” Allison says. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, usually Stiles makes enough racket that he wakes the whole house up,” Scott mumbles. He’s already falling back to sleep. Anyway, it’s too dark for him to catch Allison’s frown, but she turns around in his arms anyway, so he’s spooned up behind her and can’t see her face.

“Can I just stay here tonight?” she asks. “I can leave early if your mom’s going to be back.”

“She’s at work until school starts,” Scott says. He’s already drifting back off to sleep. Allison cuddles herself back into his body, and he tightens his arms around her automatically. It feels _right_ to fall asleep this way. She doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“I love you,” she says.

“Love you,” Scott agrees, muffled by her hair and the fact that he’s mostly asleep again. Allison lets herself go.

For the sake of _this_ , it all has to work. There are things Allison needs to do. She goes to school on Friday morning in yesterday’s underwear and one of Scott’s old shirts, too small on him and just short of so big that she’s swimming in it. Lydia Martin, who always stinks of gun oil and Derek Hale these days, notices right away, but she holds her gossip and her tongue anywhere in Allison’s hearing. Stiles, who’s known Scott long enough to recognize any old shirt on sight if he’s paying enough attention, glances at her a little longer than he has all week and then goes to his new seat in the back corner of the English classroom without comment.

They’re tense. They haven’t talked much this week, and maybe it’s one good thing to come out of Aunt Kate’s mess. It’s the best thing Allison has on her side.

Scott loves Allison. Scott loves his best friend. Scott is going to be a wolf, and Scott is _so good_ , but wolves kill. Scott will still be himself after he learns to hunt, but he doesn’t know that yet.

 _Sweetie, if he’s not willing to kill for you, he doesn’t deserve you, or this pack,_ Aunt Kate said, not even two weeks ago. Maybe she’s right, but Aunt Kate doesn’t know Scott like Allison does. He’s going to need a push.

Allison waits until lunch to execute her attack. Scott’s finishing an Economics paper last-minute in the library. If she’s lucky, he won’t ever even find out.

“Hey,” she says cautiously, and Stiles looks up from his cafeteria meatloaf in obvious surprise. “Can I talk to you in private?”

 

It’s the second time this week somebody’s dragged Stiles off to an empty classroom for a Serious Conversation about werewolves. Not that Scott knew they were talking about werewolves, of course. He wonders if this is going to start being a habit.

Allison _probably_ isn’t going to kill him. Half the cafeteria saw them leave together, and there’s no way she could hide his body in a school full of this many people before somebody noticed they were missing. If the Argents decided that Stiles knows too much and would be better off dead, they’d wait until he was alone, somewhere they could get away with making it look like a freak mountain lion attack. Probably. Right?

So maybe Stiles has been jumping at soft noises and sleeping in short spurts with the light on for a week straight. It’s fine. When he does fall asleep for too long, he always ends up dreaming about Kate, and her claws, and her eyes flashing gold the color of fire.

He can’t possibly have loved her. You can’t be this afraid of somebody you’re in love with.

He’s been spending as much of the week as possible with his dad. If Stiles’ dad is with Stiles, then Stiles can make sure he’s home, with the doors locked, and the shades on all the windows drawn, and easily-accessed firearms right there in the gun safe in the office. It’s bad enough that Stiles’ dad is _the sheriff_ ; at least when he’s working, he’s usually surrounded by armed and uniformed officers of the law. It’s possible, just vaguely possible, that the Stilinski family is going to get through this one more or less alright. Maybe.

Okay, Stiles has been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since Derek Hale’s manacles fell open in his hands and Derek Hale fell forward, too weak to stand, practically on top of him. Maybe he wants this to be it. At least then he’d _know_.

“So,” he says, as Allison leads him into an abandoned classroom. “How’re things at home these days? Torture anyone new lately? You know, they say the family that flays together, stays together.” He really shouldn’t be antagonizing Allison, not when he still doesn’t know if she even knew Derek was down there, but it’s been hard to miss the way Lydia and Jackson both look terrified of her lately. She’s the girl Stiles’ best friend is in love with. He can’t really afford to get this one wrong.

Allison shuts the classroom door behind them. Stiles refuses to feel like a trapped rat. Any second, that refusal will start actually working, too. Aaaaany second now.

“You know things you’re not supposed to,” Allison says simply. Allison’s a wolf. He’s been looking for it for the past two weeks, any sign of animal or killer in her, and this is it. Any trace of that grinning, laughing teenager who’s been constantly climbing on top of Scott for the past two and a half months is basically gone.

“Yeah,” says Stiles, puffing himself up as tall as he can. They say wild animals get intimidated by that, right? “Yeah, I know your little secret. You’re a _werewolf_. And your aunt’s a murderer, and kind of a kinky bitch with illegal and seriously questionable taste in men.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Allison says, stalking towards him with easy liquid grace. The tone of voice isn’t anything like Kate, all serious and not enough of a tease in it, but the words are familiar enough to make him flinch. Allison spots it, of course. Predators always do.

“Yeah, well, the thing about my seriously questionable taste is, I wasn’t the grown-up with the razor-sharp killing claws,” says Stiles. “And can I just say, if you’re here to intimidate me, it took you long enough to do it.”

“We wanted to know what you’d do first,” says Allison. “And now I need to know your intentions.”

“My intentions,” Stiles repeats. “Right. Like I’m supposed to believe you’re just going to pull me aside and ask nicely?”

“I can tell if you’re lying,” she says. She leans back against the lab table opposite him, casual, unconcerned. Stiles really wants a pen or something to fidget with right about now. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

“I haven’t yet, have I?” Stiles demands. “Why do you care? Why aren’t I dead already, or chained up in some cell like Derek Hale?”

“Scott cares about you,” says Allison. “He wouldn’t like it. It won’t stop us if you look like you’re a danger, but for his sake my grandfather’s willing to consider letting you live.”

Stiles has been on edge since he looked up to see Allison standing in front of his cafeteria table like nothing in the world was wrong. Now everything inside of him sharpens, tenses like a guitar string about to snap. “Why does your grandfather care what Scott wants?” he asks, very carefully.

“Because I do,” says Allison. “We’re a family, Stiles. We look out for each other. I love Scott more than anything but my family in the world, and my grandfather’s willing to take care of him, for me.”

“Scott doesn’t know what you are,” Stiles says, with absolute certainty. Scott’s a worse liar than Stiles is. He hasn’t had a secret this heavy, riding around on him. Stiles would’ve noticed. Maybe they could actually have talked about this, then.

“He will,” says Allison. “I’m going to tell him. But first I need to know that you’re not going to run off and make life dangerous for us. Especially since I know you wouldn’t want to make life more dangerous for Scott, too.”

“You know what would be less dangerous for Scott? Not hanging around with killer werewolves,” snaps Stiles. “If you really loved him, you’d think about that.”

“I love Scott,” says Allison. It makes Stiles’ blood run cold, how _absolute_ she sounds. “Our pack will never hurt him. Not if you don’t come after us.”

“You don’t hold people you love _hostage_ like that, Allison,” Stiles says, without any expectation that it’s going to matter.

“Then don’t make me,” she says.

“Oh my god, you actually believe everything you’re saying, don’t you?” He shouldn’t even be surprised. This is what happens when you raise someone all alone in a creepy werewolf pack. Aside from the fact that Stiles is starting to worry that Allison might be nearly as crazy as Kate, he almost feels sorry for her.

“I only lie if I have to,” Allison says, hopping down from the lip of the lab table. “You already know I’m a werewolf.” And apparently they’re done here.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, gathering up his backpack. “Somehow, that’s not even the scariest thing about you.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Stiles,” Allison says over her shoulder, on her way out the door. Since it’s the biggest lie Stiles has heard since coming into this room, he doesn’t even try to answer.

 

Derek really needs a social life. Just look at his Friday night: at home, with his dear uncle and a pair of luckless teenage would-be-minions turned handlers. All right, he’s still nursing quite the set of broken ribs, and his leg wouldn’t get him very far on the dance floor, but Peter is entirely aware that this was probably the makeup of his nephew’s Fridays long before he was captured, tortured, and barely made it out alive. If anything, it was probably worse. Lydia doesn’t strike Peter as one to let the demands of a hunter’s lifestyle interfere with her own pleasure. Guilt, of course, is another story.

If this keeps up, Peter is either going to have to forcibly introduce Derek to the world himself, or invest in some board games. They might as well push this dysfunctional, borderline-incestuous family dynamic as far as it goes. It might be deeply entertaining to watch Lydia force Jackson to sit and play a good game of Clue.

 _Something_ needs to lighten the mood around here. Peter is starting to depress himself just sharing a couch and a gene pool with Derek. Lydia hasn’t looked up from her computer monitors once in the past ten minutes. Peter suspects she’s moved on to doing next year’s homework.

“So where are all the ‘cool’ kids in town tonight?” Peter perfected the art of putting invisible quotes directly into his intonation several years ago, over the course of a nine-hour conversation with a minor Midwestern local news anchor on a twelve-hour flight to Singapore. It’s been regularly useful ever since. Jackson snorts and doesn’t look up from whatever game he’s playing on his Iphone.

“Party at _Greenberg’s_ ,” he says, with enough disdain to give Peter an excellent idea of just where this Greenberg’s social standing used to lay, before Lydia and Jackson began spending their own weekends here.

“Oh?” Peter glances up from his own laptop screen. “Not invited?”

Jackson lowers his phone, already in a snarl. “Listen, you middle-aged creep--”

“He’s baiting you,” Derek interrupts. “Let it go.”

Derek turns another page of the godawful serialized spy trash he reads. Peter knows from serialized pulp trash. He writes it to pretend he has to work for a living. He needs to at least find Derek some Tom Clancy. It would be several steps up.

“We’re here to get work done,” Lydia says. “I assume we are going to try and plan something, at some point tonight?”

“You think it’s going to go any better than _last_ night?” Jackson snipes, viciously stabbing at the screen of his phone. His birds must be decimating those pigs.

“If you don’t want to take the time and effort to do things _right_ , Jackson, I’m really not sure why you’re here at all.”

Peter raises his eyes over the top of his screen to look at Derek, who still hasn’t looked up from his novel and shows absolutely no interest in breaking up the brewing fight. He’s been uncharacteristically withdrawn, even for Derek, since Peter’s been here, and especially since whatever it was that Lydia said to him the other night. Derek never really was the leaderly type. With Lydia doing his job, and Peter here, now, to pick up the slack, Derek’s really just waiting for somebody to put a gun in his hands and point him into a fight.

“I don’t really know why _any_ of us are here, if we’re not going to _kill some werewolves_.”

“The idea isn’t to kill _some_ , Jackson, it’s to kill _all of them_ , and--”

The knock on the door cuts her off mid-sentence; Peter can see Derek’s shoulders slump in something like relief. “Pizza’s here,” Peter says mildly.

Board games, if they’re still at this next week. Maybe Scrabble.

Jackson stomps over to the door, which means he’s paying. Peter isn’t particularly interested in the pizza deliveryperson, so he only glances towards the doorway out of the corner of his eye, at first. Then the sound of Lydia’s typing stops.

“Stilinski, what the hell do you want?” Jackson demands, and Peter is officially intrigued. He cranes his head around to see. Yes, there he is, in the flesh and bearing no pizza whatsoever, Derek’s erstwhile rescuer from last week. Peter’s eyebrows raise entirely on their own. Now, this is a surprise for the night.

“I want to talk to Derek,” says the teenager at the door. He pushes his way past Jackson into the living room, eyes skimming over the room--hesitates for a moment when he sees Lydia, oh, interesting, there’s some history _there_ \--and lands on Derek.

“You,” he says, stabbing a finger in Derek’s direction. Derek’s book has landed face-up on his lap. God, Peter’s nephew looks so ridiculously _clueless_ sometimes. “I saved your life.”

“You did,” Derek acknowledges. “Thank you.”

“That means you owe me,” the boy continues. “Yeah, that’s right, you owe me, big guy. I risked my life, and my _dad’s_ life, dragging your ass out of there, and now I want something back.”

“I don’t know who you think--” Jackson starts, but Derek raises a hand, somehow, miraculously, enough to wave him off.

“What do you want?” Derek asks.

“Scott,” says the boy. “I saved your life, you save Scott.”

“Scott’s not in danger,” Derek says dismissively. The boy’s eyes narrow, and Peter raises a hand.

“For those of us who’ve come in late to this particular game, any chance at a little clarification?” Peter asks. “Who’s Scott? And, for that matter, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.” Peter snaps the laptop shut, sets it to the side, and stands up to greet their guest with better manners than Derek has. “Peter Hale. And you?”

The boy eyes Peter’s hand uncertainly, but shakes it anyway, firm with just a little bit of teenage boy clamminess. “Stiles. Scott’s my best friend. Derek knows who he is.”

“Scott McCall’s been dating Allison Argent for the past few months,” Lydia fills in helpfully.

“And Stiles used to be Kate Argent’s _pet_ , up until last week,” Jackson adds. Stiles takes a step back, pulls his hand out of Peter’s already balling up into a fist, and Peter lifts both of his own hands in his best placating manner.

“Now, now,” he says. “Who among us _hasn’t_ fallen for the charms of a much-older woman who’s secretly longing to rip open our entrails and feast on our still-beating heart, once or twice?” Ah, Mongolia. Memories.

It has the desired effect of calming some of the less-productive tension in the room, though Stiles is now eyeing Peter like a neighborhood snake that may or may not turn out to be venomous. Peter’s been looked at like worse things.

“I want you to save Scott,” Stiles says. He glances around the room, then focuses directly back on Derek, who finally seems to have realized that he should probably push himself up to his feet for this conversation given that everybody else in the room already has. “You’re trying to kill the Argents, fine. Not my business. But Scott gets out okay, and alive, no matter what.”

“Scott’s human, Stiles,” Derek says, with obvious forced patience. “We don’t kill humans.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better hurry the hell up and get rid of the rest of the pack, then, because the way Allison sounded today, I think they’re planning on changing that pretty soon,” Stiles says. “When I say _no matter what_ , I mean it. I don’t care if he’s covered in fur and howling at the moon, you kill them, you get him out, and you leave him to _me_.”

He glares around the room, daring anybody to challenge him. Peter’s impressed with his balls.

“If Scott’s joined the pack, there’s nothing we can do,” Derek says. “All werewolves are killers. They can’t help themselves.”

“Bullshit,” says Stiles. “I’ve sat across a dining room table from grandpa Argent, okay, you can’t tell me that guy’s ever killed _anybody_ he didn’t absolutely mean to. Scott’s not going to be like them, okay, no way. No way am I letting them turn Scott McCall into the kind of person who thinks it’s okay to chain somebody up and torture him until he begs for death.”

Derek’s dark glower is really very impressive, seen in profile. Not by and large very effective, mind, but very impressive.

“You did,” Stiles says. “You begged me to kill you. I hauled your ass out of there and you don’t even know _what_ they would’ve done to you next. You owe me. So you’re going to kill the Argents, and you’re going to save Scott.” He’s all puffed up and bristling, like a cat trying to make itself bigger, draped in so many layers that it’s impossible to see how broad he might be in the first place. A contradiction. He’s willing to fight Derek right here for his friend, but he’s already expecting Derek to say ‘no’.

A fascinating boy. They could stand to turn their merry little band of four into a band of five; he has tension with Derek and history with Lydia, and Peter always ends up writing himself out in final drafts anyway. He’d completely throw off the numbers for Scrabble, but this is probably a much more interesting use of a Friday night.

“That sounds reasonable enough to me,” Peter says, drawing all of the attention in the room back to him. “Would you care to join us?”

 

“Hey,” Scott says, smiling into his phone. “I can’t wait for tomorrow. What are you doing tonight?”

“Actually, do you want to come over for dinner?” Allison asks. “My grandfather has something he wants to talk to you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic violence in an abusive family situation like _woah_. Serious and credible death threats made against a dependent family member. More discussion of suicide. More adults using teenagers for their own, largely violent/murderous ends.


	8. Chapter 7: In the end everything collides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many things explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light It Up)', by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Warnings, as ever, at the end of the chapter.

It starts raining around 7:00, a thin dribble of water without thunder or drama, enough to dampen the sidewalks without quite soaking the ground. The pizza guy turns up eventually, twenty minutes late.

 

Looking at Stilinski for any real length of time makes the back of Jackson’s neck throb. It’s been throbbing, aching, for two months now, so long that Jackson doesn’t even notice before he lifts his hand to rub at the claw marks any more. He doesn’t remember what it felt like not to hurt, not to dream of fire and forests and wake up with the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Did Harris even have anything to do with you, or did Kate just kill him because she could?” Stilinski asks. Jackson’s fingers clamp reflexively around the nape of his neck.

“How do you know it was Kate?” he asks, before he can stop himself. Stilinski just blinks at him around an enormous mouthful of pizza.

“Disgusting,” Jackson scoffs, and turns back to his phone. He has a _name_ , now. He knows which one to shoot first.

 

“This needs to work, Kate,” Chris says, leaning against her door jamb with no invitation at all. “If Scott doesn’t work out, I don’t need to tell you whose heads this will be falling on.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it now, hmm?” Kate asks. “It’s up to Allison and Sparky now.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. Kate stands by the nickname. ‘Brown eyes’ is only going to be so accurate, after tomorrow night.

“You might want to think about doing your best to make sure things run smoothly for her,” Chris says. “Given how well things have been going lately.”

Kate makes sure to brush by just a little too close on her way out of the room, tips of her fingers just skating over her brother’s shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “Can’t keep our dinner guest waiting.”

 

"No," Lydia says for the fiftieth time. "No. We can't kill _some_ of them, and we can't kill a few of them. We can't do this halfway at all. We’re committing mass murder, or we’re not even going to bother."

There's no way, but it's not _safe_ any other way. This was hard enough without Scott McCall to worry about, but Stiles Stilinski has more inside information than they've been able to put together in two months. 

Everybody in the room follows Lydia's every word. Peter' s eyes track her even when she's not looking back at him.

"So," Lydia says, because if she's going to fail at genocide again she's not going down alone. "Who has ideas?"

 

Allison has to pick Scott up in town; no sense him borrowing his mother's car and worrying her when he doesn't bring it home. Victoria puts the finishing touches on the roast and pulls a cherry pie out of the oven to cool. 

Chris doesn't pace. He stands in the living room near the window, holding the business section without reading it. He'll hear the car as soon as Allison turns up the drive.

There are too many numbers to crunch, to many contingencies to plan. Kate leans against the mantle and prods the fire with an iron poker. Chris's father flips a page of the sports section. Chris knows better than to ask if he really cares.

Victoria has pulled out the second best dishes for the table. There will be no living with her if one of them breaks. 

 

When Stiles thinks of Kate, when he lets himself, he thinks of fear and skin and the color gold. Kate's hair in the firelight. Kate's eyes flickering the same color as the flames in the fireplace, the way her kisses seared.

"Burn it down," he says, the first thing he's said in half an hour. Everybody looks at him. He's looking at the rain.

"Lock them inside and burn the whole house down around them. That should do it, right?"

 

It’s a quiet Friday night, really. The sheriff spends half his shift out in his patrol car, cruising around for absolutely no trouble at all. He swings around towards the McDonald’s on the south end of town around dinner time. Then he spends thirty seconds in the parking lot casting glances back and forth across the street and wrestling with his own better judgment, the stern voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like a sixteen-year-old boy, and those curly fries he snuck for lunch, before he sighs and heads into Panera for a sandwich and a salad.

He drives past the Greenberg house to check on the lineup of cars down the block, but the neighbors haven’t called in any noise complaints, so he’ll let the party be.

He doesn’t know if Stiles is there. He hasn’t asked about the fight Stiles swears he didn’t have with Scott. Stiles has been different lately, quieter, more hesitant, but maybe quieter’s a good thing for him. Maybe.

The streets are quiet. The hospital’s lit up and bustling, but there are no ambulances screaming up to the emergency entrance, no emergency calls lighting up the sheriff’s radio. The rain’s barely even heavy enough to be worth the windshield wipers.

 

It's not the Argents’ house. It's Derek's grandfather's house. His father's house.

"Interesting proposition," Peter says. "Seems feasible. I may have just the trick to keep them inside. Derek?"

Derek's grandfather hunted for fifty years and died in his bed, in that house, and all his weapons and belongings were toted off by people named Storm and Callahan and McGregory. His father died at the end of his mother’s gun. His sister died on a pair of jaws and the tip of a razor. There are no Hales _left_.

Derek is a hunter, son of hunters. It’s a hunter’s house.

“Burn it down,” he says.

 

Allison’s grandfather has always _looked_ old and kindly, but something about his eyes have always made Scott squirm. It’s more than just the fact that Scott’s pretty sure he _knows_ what Scott and Allison have been doing when nobody else is home. He looks at Scott like he knows a lot more than that.

“So, Scott,” Allison’s grandfather says, folding his hands on the table in front of his plate. Scott tries not to choke on a way-too-big mouthful of roast beef. This is exactly what a rabbit must feel like, right before it gets hit by a car.

“Tell me,” says Allison’s grandfather. Scott swallows hard. “What do you know about werewolves?”

 

They move in the dead of night. It’s werewolf time. They don’t care.

The house is a hundred and thirty years old. The bones are wood and the wiring’s faulty. It won’t be hard to set the whole place ablaze.

“And nobody’s going to notice if the Argent house burns down to the ground, and there’s fifty gallons of gasoline on our credit cards from the exact same night?” Jackson asks.

Lydia smiles. “Leave that to me,” she says. Matches and gasoline-based accelerant are for amateurs.

They could do it tomorrow. They could do it Sunday, or Monday, or next weekend, or the night before the full moon the week after that. They have a plan now. There’s no rush.

It’s 10:00 at night and there’s a 24-hour drug store two blocks away, another three more still open between Beacon Hills and the next town over. Jackson and Derek split Lydia’s shopping list and promise to pay cash. There’s no reason to hurry, but it’s only 10:00 at night. Why wait?

“How are we going to make sure they stay inside?” Stiles asks. “Block the doors and all the windows? Or, hey, maybe we should make it look like we left an escape route through the basement, and when they’re all down there we can cut them off from both sides. You and Derek know all the ways into and out of the basement, right?”

Peter nods, but defers to Lydia when she says, “There’s way too much room for error there. We need a better way.” She lifts her eyes to Peter, respectful, level, with just a hint of challenge. Peter smiles at her, and Stiles’ skin crawls.

“I may have a solution to that,” he says. “Very old stuff, very powerful. Most hunters don’t even bother to use it these days. I’d be surprised if Derek even knows half of what mountain ash can do. Of course, there’s no way I can ring the entire house and all its exits alone before the Argents notice.”

“We’ll all help,” Lydia says impatiently. “How?”

“I doubt Jackson could manage,” says Peter. “Derek certainly couldn’t. You two, though...”

“What do you mean?” Stiles demands. Every time Peter looks at him, he feels the pressing urge to be on the other side of the room, but every time Peter looks at Lydia, Stiles feels the pressing urge to push in between them, just so Peter stops looking like _that_. He stays where he is. “What about us?”

“You’ll see,” says Peter. “Lydia and I ought to be able to handle it. Can you handle a gun?”

“Cop’s kid,” says Stiles. “Yeah. I’ll help you guys.” He’s not leaving Lydia alone with a guy whose smile reminds him this much of Kate.

Jackson gets back first, swinging heavy plastic bags full of household chemicals and cheap vodka. Stiles swipes Derek’s number from Lydia’s phone and calls him to insist he makes a McDonald’s run for snacks and coffee on his way home from shopping, while Lydia dumps half the alcohol into a mixing bowl and starts shaking carefully-measured ingredients back into the bottles in proportions only she seems to know.

They have hamburgers at midnight. Lydia sets Jackson to working under microscope-close supervision in the spare bathtub with the window thrown open. Peter spoons strange powders into jars, alone in his kitchen, while Derek drags Stiles back to the middle apartment to clean and load guns. It’s all set by two in the morning.

It’s werewolf time, moon low and clouds over half the stars, but the dripping rain’s trailed off to scarce, solitary drops and Lydia’s cameras and sensors are all quiet tonight, so better now than never. Derek scrounges up extra jackets and Laura’s two old pairs of night-vision goggles from the bottom of a closet. They take two cars between the five of them, cardboard box packed carefully full of self-igniting Molotov cocktails in the back of the Jeep, and park at the very bottom of the two-mile gravel drive. Cell phones get turned off. They’re deer, now. Nothing but deer. They walk the rest of the way on foot.

 

Derek stops at the tree line where the woods open up onto the house lawn, flicking his hands in quick, barely-visible signals that Lydia and Jackson have been drilled in for weeks, that Derek’s known all but from birth. He and Peter melt invisibly off into the black. The teenagers set the box of explosives carefully down at the base of a tree.

Lydia and Stiles grab vials of ash and Jackson shoulders his rifle, already loaded with wolfsbane-tipped rounds. The night’s quiet, the slivered moon is dim, and it’s time to get to work.

 

Whatever Peter does with his time, in between writing terrible novels about thinly-veiled versions of all his friends and family members and traveling the world for no given reason at all, it hasn’t cut in to his hunter skills. He moves through the woods as silently as Derek does even when he’s not nursing a few still-fractured ribs, more, and he’s not the one wearing the night-vision goggles. Peter just needs to be able to walk a steady circle around a few hidden entrances to underground passages. Derek needs to be able to see and react quickly enough to shoot anything that shows up to threaten him.

There are three places that Derek can remember the catacombs of the old house letting out into the woods. The Argents have to know about the one he and Stiles escaped by, would’ve been able to track their scents across the faded smells of mold and undisturbed dust without a moment’s trouble, but Derek and Peter will guard all three. No escapes. No mistakes.

There are two little glass bottles weighing heavily on each of Derek’s coat pockets, bumping softly against his hips every other step. Lydia’s been playing with infusing wolfsbane into vodka on and off for weeks. It would probably kill a human, trying to drink the whole bottle. It should be more than enough to down a werewolf.

There’s no way to force them to drink it, of course, and Lydia assembled most of her explosives tonight out of better-tested, less experimental ingredients. Throwing it through a window like the more volatile mixtures they’re carrying might get the stuff burning into the air, and there are a few bottles tucked in with the explosives just for that, but it’s not enough. Derek doesn’t just want the werewolves cut off in the basement. He doesn’t just want them trying to find a narrow corner to wait out the fire. He wants them to burn, and if he can’t have that, then choking on wolfsbane fumes is more than good enough.

Peter stops up ahead in the shadow of an old rock, and Derek stops behind him, eyes and ears in every direction. There’s an old steel door set right into the rock, chained and locked for longer than Derek’s grandfather’s been dead, half-buried by decades of shifting dirt. It might be impassable, even for a werewolf. They’re not taking chances.

Derek paces restlessly until a stray step sounds the crunching of dead leaves loud enough to make him flinch. Peter’s halfway around the door, moving like a wraith in the dark, every step measured and smooth and totally unconcerned for anything around him. Derek sets his back against an oak and tries not to twitch.

There are no noises, no shots in the distance. The kids are in a thousand times more danger, up right around the house, creeping under the line of the windows as close to the foundation as they dare to get, but Derek and Peter are the only ones who could find all three of the catacomb entrances without having to spend time searching. It has to be done. Derek intends to make the time worthwhile.

There’s no sense trying to force this door. Derek and Stiles escaped by the farthest exit Derek could remember, the one that lets out more than a mile away from the house down an old wash. There never used to be a gate over it, but now that they’ve found it, Derek can’t imagine the wolves leaving it unguarded. The other passageway, though.

There’s a steel grate set over a hole in the ground, not far south of the house. It’s their second stop. The metal looks set deep into the rock, more like a trap’s dead end than an escape hatch in times of trouble, but Derek remembers how to work the release mechanism. If it still opens, he can be in and out of the basement before the Argents even realize they’re under siege.

It’s a two-minute jog from the first door. Peter lets Derek lead, this time, and Derek ignores the ache in his ribs and takes it at double time. Lydia and Stiles will be working slowly, but it won’t take them very long to encircle the whole house with ash, even if they keep freezing to avoid notice.

The grate is still there, just where Derek remembers, thinly rusted but sturdy under his fingers when Derek crouches down to test it. He can’t see Peter’s facial expression in the dark, just the set of Peter’s shoulders, but Derek can picture the wry patience written there. He ignores it.

The grate springs up as soon as Derek’s fingertips find the latch. He doesn’t need to see Peter’s face in order to picture Peter’s eyebrows rising, either. He just straightens, waits until he’s sure Peter is turned towards him, and makes sure his hand signals are slow and exaggeratedly large.

 _Split up_ , Derek signals. _I go down, you continue on._

The Hale family hand-signal lexicon is borrowed from half a dozen military veterans over the years going off to war and bringing their knowledge back with them. It’s full of useful gestures for giving directions, marking time, and coordinating assault maneuvers, but a little piecemeal for other things. Derek and Laura worked out movements for _You’re an idiot_ in the backseat of the family SUV on stakeouts as children. Peter gives that one an extra ironic twist of his fingers, but follows it up with _as you wish_ , so Derek doesn’t care.

He hangs around aboveground until Peter finishes the circle, painfully conscious of every second ticking forward, risking discovery. The moment after Peter closes off his ash line, Derek is ready to go.

He doesn’t offer Peter the night-vision goggles, but Peter will survive. There’s less light down where Derek’s going, anyway.

 

 _We’re setting a fire,_ Peter told them, with that terrifyingly amused expression on his face. _You have your ashes. What else do you need?_

 _Ashes are the result of a fire, not the cause of one,_ Lydia said tartly, and in that moment Stiles had never loved her more. _And mountain ash is a common name for some species of rowan trees. It has nothing to do with fire._

 _You’re not usually so literal-minded,_ Peter chided her. _If you keep this up, you might not be able to live up to my expectations after all._

 _A spark,_ Stiles said, because this conversation needed to be over and he wasn’t above giving Peter what he seemed to want in order to end it. _To start a fire, you need a spark._

 _Exactly_ Peter said, and pressed the little vials of ash powder into both of their hands. _Here’s your kindling. The rest is your job._

He hadn’t said any more about it, either, but when Stiles cornered Derek by the gun racks, Derek swore that Peter knows what he’s doing with magic, so Stiles is going to have to work with it. A handful of fairy dust. Too bad he’s all out of faith or trust of basically any kind.

Werewolves exist. It’s not hard to believe in magic. It’s kind of impossible to believe that Stiles can do it, but he’s been standing at his corner of the house, close enough to touch the brickwork, for five minutes, trying to figure out how to begin. The house must have been all overgrown by the time the Argents bought it, but they’ve been landscaping. There isn’t a single bush anywhere near the foundation. No cover, if a werewolf happens to glance out a window at three in the morning and wonder why that human-shaped shadow is lurking by the foot of the building. Which means Stiles has to get this done, now. Somehow.

Okay. New plan. It’s not about Stiles doing magic at all. He’s got a handful of ash that isn’t ashes, and he’s trying to light a spark so he can contain a fire. It’s all a bunch of magical-mystical contradictions even without Stiles anywhere in the picture. He’s just the guy pouring down the ash. Maybe all he has to do is just...think flamey thoughts.

Either way, he has to get going. He and Lydia are each supposed to circle half the house, hit the start of the other person’s ash line at roughly the same time, so they make a complete, unbroken ring. Lydia’s probably halfway done by now. Okay, Stilinski. Time to impress the girl of your dreams.

The thought makes him a little bit sick to his stomach, so he tightens his fist around the mountain ash and thinks about Kate instead. He can’t help it. Kate and fire go together, and Peter said, think about fire.

He walks about as slowly and carefully as he dares, once he gets going. This is the line that’s going to keep Kate away from him, away from his _dad_ , away from _Scott_. This is the line that’s going to keep fire in, passion and heat and fear and the searing burn of Kate’s claws on his shoulder and the glitter of gold in _all_ of their eyes, this is the line that keeps all of that inside the house, and everything Stiles loves, safe and out. This is the line that--

Stiles hits the first corner and stops, heart catching in his throat, waiting, listening. He doesn’t hear anything. He doesn’t hear Jackson, who’s probably over keeping an eye on Lydia anyway, and he doesn’t hear any werewolves, which doesn’t mean a whole lot because werewolves are definitely the ‘hear you before you hear them’ type of movie-monster. But he doesn’t hear anything, and that’s good. That’s great. Maybe he can even start to breathe again.

Stiles looks down at the length of the back side of the building, the yards before he’ll hit Lydia’s corner.

He looks down at the palmful of mountain ash in his hand.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Maybe Lydia has more. Peter _definitely_ has more, why didn’t Peter give them _enough_ , did Stiles make the first part of the line too thick or something? Peter didn’t exactly give them any instructions, here! Crap, crap, crap, crap. Okay.

Okay, if this doesn’t work, then that’s it. Allison gets Scott, game over, Scott ends up with a serious overbite and a bad body hair problem, and all of the sudden Stiles has a whole _new_ set of issues that involve saving Scott not just from the Argents, but also from Derek Hale’s happy band of hunters, and also from _himself_. Meanwhile, if the Argents ever find out that Stiles was here, he and his dad will both end up going the way of Mr. Harris. Tonight _has_ to work. This has to be the end of it. There is no other option.

Lydia’s over on her side of the building. Stiles can’t even turn his cell phone on to send a text, even if he could do it one-handed without dropping any of the way-too-few precious grains of mountain ash in the process. They said _no noise_ , and that means not even the odd artificial beep of a phone. Besides, Lydia’s phone is off, too. He could just leave his trail here and walk around to her, but Peter had been really, really clear: once you start, you can’t stop and then come back to it. It’s all one clean long circle.

Besides, Stiles saw the size of those vials of mountain ash. Lydia didn’t get any more than he did.

Okay. Okay, there are no options. This is magic, right? It has to be, because there _are_ no options left. It’s all magic.

Stiles eyes the last edge of the building. It’s a straight shot, nothing to trip over, nothing in his way. There are windows, but they’re all dark, and if anybody looks out before he’s done laying down the line then they’re all screwed anyway, because it’s not like he could risk breaking the line of ash, or as if there’s anywhere to hide even if he did. He can probably make it with his eyes closed. He’s basically half-blind in the dark already.

Stiles has been walking on the outside of the line, trailing the mountain ash from his right hand, so he can’t rest his free hand on the building without some seriously awkward contortions, but it’s okay. It’s just a straight shot in the dark. One foot in front of the other. This is the line that keeps fire in. This is the line that keeps his family safe.

It’s fire. It spreads. There always ends up being more than you know what to do with. Stiles sucks in a breath, too loud, and closes his eyes, and walks.

He doesn’t let himself think about the dwindling supply of ash in his fist, because it is enough, it has to be enough, _this is the line that keeps the fire in_ , but that doesn’t keep it from running out. He gets--three steps? four? before his palm runs empty, and he opens his hand to let the last grains fall. Maybe Peter can fix it when he gets back. Maybe it’s not ruined. Maybe--

Stiles opens his eyes. He’s standing at the corner of the house where Lydia started her line, exactly where he needed to go. He stumbles and almost falls against the building in his surprise, only just managing to keep his feet well away from where he thinks the line is. If he didn’t just walk the last half of the building empty-handed and not notice it.

He has to get down on all fours to get close enough to the ash line to see it in the darkness, but he can see it. It’s there. Powdery and unbroken, nearly invisible against the dirt, and _Stiles did that_. Forget loaves and fishes, Stiles did _that_. Holy _crap_.

They’ve got kind of a base spot set up back in the trees, not too far from where Stiles is now, and he only trips on his feet twice scrambling back to it. It’s probably a bad idea to start whooping and hollering, just in case Lydia hasn’t finished, and Peter and Derek probably aren’t done warding up the back entrances so Stiles is definitely going to give them a few before he starts shouting enough to wake the whole house up, but noise is suddenly _so_ much less of an issue right now. The werewolves are _trapped_. Because of _Stiles_. Stiles did a thing!

He narrowly avoids running right into Jackson, and they tangle up in a mess of too many limbs and only one person who can actually see in the dark. Stiles has a split second of sheer unbridled terror, but then Jackson growls right in his ear, and he relaxes. Nobody but Jackson Whittemore could put that particular level of venom into getting bumped by an ally.

“ _Is Lydia done?_ ” Stiles hisses under his breath. Jackson...jerks an arm? Stiles thinks? back towards the tree line, and another shadowy figure detaches itself from the trees just far enough for Stiles to make out that it’s about Lydia’s height. Okay. They’re done. They’re _set_. He almost skips the rest of the way back to Lydia, Jackson be damned.

“ _Finally_ ,” Lydia whispers when they get close enough. “ _Now we’re just waiting for Derek and Peter._ ”

“ _What time is it?_ ” Jackson asks. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“ _Let me just ask my invisible watch that I can read in the dark but doesn’t let out any light that might alert certain families of_ werewolves _to our presence--_ ”

“ _Honestly, the both of you,_ ” Lydia snaps. “ _It’s about 3:45. It was 3:10 when we parked the car. Learn to keep an internal sense of time. Now, help me make sure the supplies are ready for when Derek and Peter get back._ ”

It’s about another...somewhere between five and fifteen minutes, Stiles’ internal clock isn’t as finely calibrated as Lydia’s, okay, and he’s somewhere between half-dead on his feet from exhaustion and too wired to ever sleep again in his life so it’s not like he’s processing on full fine-scale details right now, but that’s when they hear the loud and obvious crunch of boots on leaves coming their way through the woods. It’s way too loud for what Stiles figures a werewolf would sound like, but it’s also way louder than Derek and Peter were on their way off, so he tenses all the way up. Oh god, what if the sheriff’s department...

“Relax, it’s me,” Peter’s voice calls through the darkness, low but well above a whisper. “Can’t have you spooked into shooting me just yet.” It takes that long for Stiles to remember that, oh yeah, there’s a sawed-off shotgun in a holster on his hip, and maybe next time he hears something scuffling in the forest he ought to reach for it. Ooops.

“Where’s Derek?” Lydia asks. The shadow that’s obviously Peter comes to a stop in front of them, and raises its arms.

“He had something he wanted to take care of,” Peter says. “He’ll be along.”

“What did you do--” Lydia starts, as dangerous as Stiles has ever heard her.

“Nothing,” Peter claims. “It was his own plan. I assume he didn’t consider the catacombs to be werewolf-proof enough. Of course, if we don’t get started, his efforts won’t be worth much at all, since I estimate we’re down to about two and a half hours before we risk early-morning joggers spotting smoke and landing us all in prison.”

It’s impossible to read anybody’s faces or body language like this, but Stiles can hear Lydia shifting her weight, can _feel_ her gathering up to argue. It’s not like he doesn’t want Derek to get out of this alive as much as the next guy, if the next guy also risked life and limb rescuing Derek Hale in the first place. But to be honest, Derek strikes Stiles as not all that invested in _not dying_ , and Stiles would really rather not pin their victory on Derek’s survival instinct.

“Can we get started, then?” he asks. “Who’s throwing the first bomb?”

“I am,” Jackson says instantly. “Since I’m the one who can actually see what we’re aiming at, and _you_ couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn in daylight, Stilinski.”

He stomps off towards the crate of Molotov cocktails. Somewhere along the way, they all stopped pretending to whisper. Stiles wonders if that means the werewolves are awake yet.

He...doesn’t know if he hopes so or not. Yeah, they’re terrifying monstrous serial killers and they all deserve to die, but burning to death in your own bed...that’s got to be bad. He forces the thoughts out of his head. Now’s not the time for second-guessing.

“Jackson,” Lydia hisses, as Jackson strides out onto the lawn, a short stone’s throw away from the house. In this case, a literal stone. “Remember to break the window first, you want to make sure to get the bottle _inside_.”

“I _know_ that, Lydia,” Jackson says.

“Aim for the first floor, the fire will spread upwards and we want to cut them off from the basement if we can,” she continues.

“Lydia. We _talked_ about this. I’ve _got_ it,” Jackson says. He hefts something in one hand, probably the rock. Stiles bites his lip. Jackson winds up and hurls the rock like he’s trying out for some professional baseball team. A second later, a window shatters.

Lights don’t turn on. It’s the first time Stiles has had the ugly, horrible thought, but what if the Argents aren’t even _home_ tonight? Their cars are all here, and Lydia’s cameras and sensors said they weren’t in the woods, but still, what if they’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake before they’ve even begun? 

Nobody else seems upset, though, and--right. Why would werewolves bother turning on lamps if they’re under attack?

“Don’t forget to--” Lydia starts.

“ _Lydia_ ,” Jackson snarls impatiently. He whips the first bottle towards the house a moment later.

Yellow-orange light explodes from the window, lighting up half the front of the house in a flash. Jackson cries out; in the new, dim-flickering firelight, Stiles can see him clutch at his face and tear the night vision goggles off.

“I was going to tell you to close your eyes,” Lydia says primly. Stiles grins.

Inside the house, there’s a thud like something heavy falling, and a high-pitched, startled yelp. So. They’re home, then.

“Well, looks like we’ve started the party,” says Peter. “Shall we continue?”

 

Scott wakes up at the sound of the crash.

The first thing he notices is that his nose is buried in Allison’s hair, at the nape of her neck, and she’s never smelled so _good_ in all the time he’s known her. The second thing he notices is that his hip still hurts.

Other things collect slowly and hazily after that. Allison pulls out of his arms, bolt upright. Scott can see her so well that he wonders, blearily, why they fell asleep with the lights on, but she’s not looking at him at all. She’s staring at her bedroom door, out towards the hallway. Does being a werewolf come with x-ray vision? Scott squints, but he can’t see anything but wood.

There are sounds, though, lots of them, has Allison’s bedroom always been this _loud_? There’s pounding, like somebody’s feet on the floor but it sounds as loud as thunder, and something else thudding quieter than that from five different directions, and crackling, and then a voice,

“ _Allison, get him calm. Kate, get out here NOW_ ,” and somebody else is arguing, and he can hear Lydia Martin, of all people, right at the edge of his hearing like she’s shouting,

“ _\--have time for this, Jackson, circle around back and let us handle the front--_ ”

There’s a hand in Scott’s hair, gentle, easy, and he whines and presses his face into the pillow. “Shhhh,” Allison whispers, right next to his ear, so close he can’t focus on anything else and so quiet it doesn’t hurt. “I know it’s hard, Scott, but you have to listen to just me right now, okay? Just listen to my voice. You need to keep breathing, and calm down, and block everything else out.”

Close. Scott can do close. He reaches out with one hand and gropes until he finds Allison’s knee and squeezes it. She keeps petting his hair. One by one, the other sounds fall away. It’s just Allison’s whispering, and the sound of Scott’s own breath, louder than he’s ever heard it but not a single wheeze, and a thumping that matches the pound of his own heart in his chest, and another, almost just like it.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he says, smiling into the cotton of the pillowcase. Being a werewolf could be so cool. He can’t wait to tell Stiles. “Should it be going that fast? What’s wrong?”

Scott lifts his head. Allison’s biting her bottom lip, frowning. “There’s a fire,” she says. “It’s okay. My parents will put it out, and we’ll be fine.”

“Then why are you worried?” Scott asks, sitting up. Allison’s hand falls away from his hair, lands in her lap, twisting, fidgeting, so Scott takes it in his own.

“You remember how my grandfather mentioned hunters last night?” she says. “My dad thinks there are some in the woods.”

Scott’s not always the quickest, and he just woke up, so he takes a second to be confused that Mrs. Argent was cooking in the middle of the night before he puts the pieces together. “They’re trying to set the house on fire?” he asks. “But why would they do that? We haven’t done anything wrong?”

“I know, Scott,” Allison says. “They don’t need a reason. They hate all werewolves. It’ll be fine, my parents can handle it, we’ve taken care of hunters before.”

“But you’re still worried,” Scott finishes. She nods, so he reaches up to tangle his free hand in her hair and kiss her. He doesn’t _like_ to see Allison sad. “Okay,” he says. “What should we do to help?”

“We should get dressed,” Allison says. “Just in case we need to move fast. And we should get out there and find out what the Alpha wants us to do.”

The way Allison says _the Alpha_ sends shivers down Scott’s spine. Allison’s grandfather’s always been a weird kind of mix of way nicer than her dad, and really intimidating, but last night when Scott saw his eyes turn red, felt his _teeth_...

Allison says _the Alpha_ like it’s a really big deal, like Scott’s supposed to already know why, and it’s got to be like three in the morning so he’s not going to worry too much about not having it all figured out yet. He’s going to scramble up and do what Allison says, because Allison’s way more awake than he is, and she’s the one who knows what’s going on here anyway.

Scott’s jeans are on the floor. He’s actually left, like, five different shirts over here already, and Allison’s mom _washed_ them, which is crazy--if Allison ever left clothes at Scott’s house, he’d have to hear it from his mom for the rest of his _life_. Allison pulls on her own clothes even faster, even though Scott’s only got two things to worry about and she has to deal with a bra and a hair thing and everything. It sort of makes him wonder how many times she’s done something like this.

Scott’s been trying not to listen to any of the sounds out of the bedroom, but there’s a crash that sounds like a whole lot of glass shattering into a million pieces, right on the other side of the wall. He flinches.

“Allison!” Allison’s dad bellows so loudly that Scott’s pretty sure he could have heard it on the other side of the house even before his hearing went all werewolf and crazy. He really doesn’t sound happy.

“Scott, come on!” Allison says. She grabs his hand and pulls him out her bedroom door into a hallway that’s already half on fire.

Scott jerks back at the smoke and heat that hits him as soon as the door opens, so it takes a second to realize that Allison is still tugging him along, that it’s not actually a wall of fire in front of them yet. Most of the fire looks like it’s coming out of Kate’s bedroom, next to Allison’s, where they heard the crash. It’s licking up along the wall into the hallway now, but the whole left side is clear, and that’s where Allison drags him, towards the back staircase, the one that goes down into the kitchen.

The whole staircase is wood. The outside of the house is brick, but everything Scott’s ever seen inside the house is wood. He’s starting to get a really bad feeling about this.

The kitchen is hot, but not on fire yet. Allison’s mother is there, with her grandfather. Scott peers out the back window. There’s a dark shape out there, closer than the trees, a person, he can almost see a face--

“Scott, get away from the window,” Allison says, and pulls him back into the middle of the kitchen by his arm.

“Shouldn’t we be getting out?” Scott asks, jerking a look over his shoulder back outside.

“They’re waiting in the tree line with guns,” Allison’s grandfather says, disgusted. “Ready to pick us off one by one. Cowards, trying to flush us out like animals--”

The swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room bursts open, letting in a blast of heat and two more bodies, stumbling, choking as they go. Allison is across the room in a second, helping her aunt beat out the fire licking up her t-shirt.

“We can’t leave,” says Allison’s dad. “They’ve got some kind of barrier up around the house. We tried three of the second-floor windows and the front door, and they just let us. Nobody gets more than a foot away from the house.”

“Mountain ash,” growls Allison’s grandfather. The alpha. Is Scott supposed to start thinking of him that way? Maybe he should be more worried about how the house is on fire, and they can’t get out. Allison’s not promising it’s going to be okay any more.

“We’ll leave through the basement, then,” Allison’s mother says briskly. “There are ways out down there--”

“We have to assume they have at least as much knowledge of this house as we do,” Allison’s dad cuts in. “They certainly knew about one secret passageway down there, and there’s no telling what they might have rigged at the exits.”

“Dad, we can’t stay here,” Allison says. She grabs for Scott’s wrist, and he puts his other hand over hers, following her line of sight. There’s smoke pouring in from around the door into the dining room, and more billowing in from the hallway. It reeks, worse than any campfire Scott’s ever smelled, makes his werewolf nose itch. His eyes are already stinging.

“Dad?” Allison’s father asks. It’s the first time Scott’s ever seen him look uncertain. Scott squeezes Allison’s hand, harder than he probably should, but she just lets go of his wrist and turns her palm over so she can grab his and squeeze it back.

“The basement is made of stone,” says the alpha. “We’ll go down there and wait the fire out. They’ll break the line eventually to make sure they’ve finished us off, and we’ll be ready for them.”

“There’s a basement?” Scott asks, and then wishes he hadn’t when every head in the room turns to look at him.

“I was going to show you tomorrow,” Allison says lowly. “It’s in the broom closet.”

“I’ll lead,” Allison’s father says, but her alpha shakes his head.

“No, Chris, we need you to bring up the rear,” he says. “I’ll take the lead. If there’s anything dangerous waiting for us down there, better that I find it first.”

Allison’s dad gets a weird look on his face, just for a second there, but it’s gone fast enough that Scott can’t begin to try and figure out what it means. He’s too busy trying to remember all the third grade lessons in stop, drop, and roll, and wondering what it means that he’s only been a werewolf for like six hours and he’s already seriously afraid that he’s going to _die_.

 _It will make you stronger,_ Allison had promised, holding both of Scott’s hands in hers and looking right into his eyes. _Safer. You’ll be able to see, hear, smell, so much better than a normal human, and you’ll finally be able to_ run _without worrying about anything. It’ll get rid of your asthma._

By now the smoke’s so thick that if Scott still had asthma, he wouldn’t even need to worry about burning to death, because he’d already have choked on his own throat. Allison’s grandpa waits until they’re all looking at him to fall forward, half-wolf in a crouch, and slink out into the hall under the smoke. Scott goes down to his knees, one hand still locked tight in Allison’s, and follows.

So yeah, there’s a bright side. Nobody’s panicking yet, so it can’t be that bad, right? And at least Scott doesn’t still have asthma.

 

Lydia wouldn’t approve of this plan. Derek doesn’t know why that seems to matter so much to him.

The catacombs are old, more than a century in the parts right under the house, and they may be dug right out hard-packed dirt and stone but they’re shored up with old timbers, and timber always burns eventually. It’s a little bit damp down here. Good for smoke.

Derek works mechanically, steadily, stuffing the cracks between wood beams and walls with leaves for kindling, drenching the whole thing with wolfsbane-infused vodka and then moving on down the hall. He won’t be able to set the basement ablaze, but he doesn’t need to. So long as it’s impossible for a werewolf to safely breathe without choking, Derek has a double-barreled shotgun and a pouch full of wolfsbane shells on one hip to take care of the rest.

It’s a good plan, lighting the house on fire like this. Stiles had a good idea, and Lydia did a good job making it work. Derek hopes that if he dies, Peter sends her off somewhere better than Anna and Leo to finish training up as a hunter. Peter’s never had the patience for keeping his own apprentices for long, and besides, Lydia is too smart to believe everything Peter has to offer. He hopes.

Jackson can’t be trusted out on his own yet, he’s too green. He’s too angry and he doesn’t know how to hold it. Anger gets people killed in this business, if they don’t know how to channel it right. Derek’s seen Jackson train, he’ll never stay away from the supernatural, not any more. Somebody needs to keep a leash on him.

The new kid should be fine. Stiles isn’t in so deep he can’t crawl back out, if that friend of his is okay. He saved Derek’s life. That doesn’t make Derek responsible for him, the way he somehow ended up responsible for Jackson and Lydia. Derek’s not meant to be a hunt leader yet. There’s only so much responsibility he can take.

Lydia would say that this is a stupid plan. He can’t light anything until the first fire’s gone up in the main house. The werewolves may not have heard or smelled him through the layers of stone and wood between the catacombs and their bedrooms, but smoke tinged with wolfsbane will be hard to miss. He lingers near the stairs up to the house, waiting for the sound of the first crash, the first explosion.

Lydia would say this is a stupid plan, but Lydia’s not _here_ , and Lydia’s plan didn’t go far enough. There are too many ways the old stone catacombs could be used to escape, and Derek is too tired, too aching and broken to keep doing this forever. Tonight has to be it. He’s done. He won’t make it if he has to keep pushing any farther than this.

He and Laura used to play hide and seek down here, once a year when their parents came back around to air the old house out and make sure it stayed in good condition. Derek misses his parents. It’s time to be done with this.

It takes a while to finish off both bottles of alcohol. He doesn’t have to wait long by the stairs for the distant crash of shattering glass, the woosh of flame. Derek gives it an extra two minutes anyway, to be sure the fire’s caught, before he heads back down the passageway and holds his lighter to the first clump of vodka-soaked kindling leaves.

He’s worked at night enough times to remember to turn his head to the side before he flicks the lighter into flame. The leaves catch almost instantly and start to smolder, so Derek can leave them behind, head off farther down the twisting passageways of the basement, smoke billowing behind him as he goes.

The wolves will have two choices: head back up into the conflagration in the house, or try to press through the smoke in the basement and get out anyway. Derek inspected the spring mechanism on the grate where he got in: caked in rust, no sign of being used in years. They’ll head for the last exit, the one Derek escaped by last week, the cleft in the rock that lets out into the ravine of a little storm wash. Last week there hadn’t been any door at all, just an old rusty chain with a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign swinging across the tunnel. The werewolves have had a week to fix that, and Derek’s expecting a door of some kind, but nothing the wolves themselves can’t escape if they have to.

All he really needs is a way to get any unspent wolfsbane bullets out past Uncle Peter’s circle before the werewolves pull him down. Between the smoke, the fire, and the wolfsbane, they’ll all be doomed that way, one way or another.

Who knows. Derek might even get out of this alive.

He’s expecting steel bars, a brand new padlocked door, even a collapsed pile of fallen rocks closing the entrance off completely. A cave-in would mean the werewolves couldn’t use the exit, either, but it would have been a quick and efficient way to block the tunnel. What he’s not expecting is to find the cleft in the rock just exactly as he last saw it, chain swinging lightly in the night breeze.

It leaves him frowning down the last ten feet of tunnel. All cars known to belong to the Argents were visible in front of the house when they got here. Lydia swore she had no activity on her monitors in the woods, but that doesn’t mean Lydia’s monitors are _good enough_. Leaving an unguarded back entrance isn’t the action of somebody who’s planning to stay for very long.

He’s got the last of the alcohol-soaked leaves wrapped up and jammed on the end of a stick like a torch, smoke already starting to sting at his throat and his eyes, and he uses the light to peer out over the last few feet of tunnel. No obvious traps, but there’s Uncle Peter’s ash line, actually inside the tunnel itself, stretching from wall to wall and closing any wolves in more securely than any door. If Uncle Peter actually made it in and back out again, maybe it’s not rigged at all.

Either way, Derek needs to make sure the werewolves they’re hunting are even here. The tunnel he’s left is already smoking up, enough to make him cough, but probably more than enough to disguise his scent. He can head back down and wait.

 

Chris almost runs into Victoria’s shoulders, pushing back up the stairs as he’s coming down. “Wolfsbane,” she hisses. Chris can smell it already, sickly-sweet and choking up the smoke in the air.

“Get down and get low,” Chris orders. Smoke rises, and upstairs is rapidly turning into the kind of blaze even a full fire department couldn’t contain. They’re running out of options.

Victoria pushes Allison in front of her, down to the cool stone floor of the basement under the worst of the smoke, where the rest of the pack is already face-down and waiting. Chris’s father is already shifted all the way to Alpha form. The better to claw or shoulder heavy loads aside, Chris supposes--it would have come in handy up in the house, where every creak and groan had Chris afraid of a falling wall or beam.

“What’s that smell?” asks Allison’s boy, before Allison can shush him. Chris can’t look at him right now, can’t look at Kate. Too much of this is down to _them_ , but deciding how much it matters will be a task for whoever actually survives tonight. It does nobody any good for Chris to start spilling pack blood now.

“They rigged the basement with wolfsbane,” Kate says, and coughs, harsh and gasping. “Smart boys.”

“You--” Victoria starts, furious in the way Chris can’t afford to be, nobody can afford to be right now.

“Enough,” Chris says. His father is panting, but not coughing or gasping like the rest of them. If he took human form, he could give the orders, but the Alpha’s life must be preserved over all others, for the good of the pack, and he seems less susceptible to the smoke this way. He’s watching Chris, and he’ll make his displeasure known if he disagrees. “There might still be a way out down here, but we can’t all risk looking around for it. You four need to get back upstairs and wait.”

“But the fire--” Allison says.

“You’re werewolves,” Chris says. “You can survive a little fire. The smoke up there won’t kill you. This will. The kitchen was still mostly stable. Break the windows to let the smoke out and wait for one of us to get you.”

Victoria will be able to take care of the rest. Her priority is Allison, and she and Kate agree on at least that. If Allison’s the only one who survives tonight, then so be it.

“What about you?” Allison asks. Chris gives in, crawls across the floor to kiss her on the top of the head.

“Worry about Scott,” he says. It’s all the same to Chris if the boy burns to death tonight, but it will give Allison something to think about besides her own fear. “Go with your mother. Go _now_.”

The Alpha growls agreement with the weight of command. Kate’s already halfway up the stairs. She’s always willing to run into danger for the chance at a bigger reward, not that there’s much reward anywhere here right now.

Chris tries to take a deep breath, as the door swings shut upstairs, and ends up choking on it. He claws a strip of fabric from his shirt, half-blind and coughing, and ties it around his nose and mouth as securely as he can. There’s no fastening cloth over the alpha’s snout, but he seems fine. He’s already heading off down the hallway, slinking low. Chris follows.

He’s headed straight for the obvious exit, the open one, which would be Chris’s last choice--they _know_ the hunters already know about it, and if they managed to ward the entire house, who knows what they might have set up at the end of the tunnel?--but the alpha’s in the lead and Chris can’t question him now. At least there will be fresh air there. Even if they can’t get past the line, if there’s air, they might be able to survive for a while. Chris’s father will probably stay and guard the entrance while Chris goes back to get the rest of the pack. Not many hunters will take on a fully-grown, eight-foot-tall alpha werewolf, even one trapped behind a line of mountain ash.

Chris can’t smell anything through the smoke, can barely hear past the thundering of his own blood in his ears. The first he knows of Derek Hale is the sound of the gunshot.

His father snarls, an animal sound of pain and rage, and stumbles right in front of Chris, nearly going down on his face before he springs back up. The second shot sounds almost immediately. Chris is close enough to see his father’s right shoulder collapse under his weight, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Derek Hale is standing at the end of the corridor, through a haze of smoke that makes Chris’s eyes tingle and water, moving backwards as fast as a human can while reloading shells into a shotgun. Chris drops to his knees next to his father.

“Are you alright?” he demands, banishing all fear or worry from his inflection. They need the alpha. Panic is the greatest enemy of survival. The alpha growls, paws ineffectively at Chris’s leg. Chris darts a glance back down the corridor where Hale disappeared, then back at his father, slowly regaining human voice and tongue.

“Wolfsbane,” the alpha growls. “He’ll have more bullets. Get them _now_.”

Wolfsbane. Of course it would be. Chris hasn’t been very impressed with Derek Hale before tonight, but any hunter who walks knowingly into a werewolf’s own den would be carrying wolfsbane shells.

He can’t spring up and sprint off like he wants, not when he can’t even draw in a full breath, but Chris is still faster than any human hunter. And Hale can’t be healed yet from everything Kate had put him through, not completely. Chris is up and loping down the corridor in a quick moment, ready to hunt.

There’s no scent trail to pick up, not underneath the smell of wolfsbane and smoke, and these tunnels are like a labyrinth that Chris never finished mapping out in his own mind. He pulls up at the first intersection, closes his eyes against the aconite sting, and listens for the heartbeat of frightened prey. Hale’s here somewhere. Now it’s just cat and mouse to find him.

Every minute Chris spends trying to track this hunter down to save his father is a minute longer the rest of his family has to wait in the burning house for rescue. Chris listens as hard as he can, trying to pick out the exact direction of the soft heartbeat between the crackling of leaves and the hiss of smoke and his father’s grunts and groans, all echoing wildly off a maze of stone, then gives up. He picks the tunnel that leads most directly to the exit and follows it at a run. Hale’s probably on his way out, and Chris needs to see the exit one way or another. If he doesn’t find Hale this way, he’ll worry about the consequences.

 

“Did you hear something?” Lydia asks suddenly. Stiles drags his eyes from the conflagration in front of them to look at her, biting her lip with worry. They can actually see each other now, since the house is turning into the biggest bonfire Northern California’s had in _decades_. Lydia’s hair is the same color as the fire, and two or three months ago, Stiles would’ve thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I heard a house burning down?” Stiles offers. There was a really exciting clatter a minute or two ago as part of the roof caved in, but nothing since then. Lydia shakes her head.

“Derek should be back,” she says. “Peter! Tell me exactly what happened when you left Derek.”

“He went down into the tunnels around the basement,” Peter says with a shrug. “I assume he had some kind of plan to make sure the wolves couldn’t wait the fire out that way.”

“Wait,” Stiles says. “He’s in _there_?” And Stiles had just been thinking about marshmallows.

“And you _let him_?” Lydia asks, voice going dangerously, terrifyingly low.

“I’m not his father, Lydia,” Peter says. “Derek may act like a child most of the time, but he’s a grown man, and this is his hunt. It was his choice.”

“Well, now I’m making a choice,” Lydia declares. “I’m going to go get him. You can come with me, or you can stay here.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Stiles says. “That sounds kind of ridiculously dangerous.”

“Well?” Lydia asks, raising her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you do it for me?”

And what _that_ says about Lydia’s relationship with Derek Hale, Stiles doesn’t want to begin to think about right now, but okay, he can work with this. Peter is the only one who actually knows where to find all the ways into the Hale basement, and Stiles is still basically dead-set against the plan that involves Peter and Lydia off in a dark woods alone. He really doesn’t like the plan that involves Peter and himself off in a dark woods alone, but at least Lydia will be here with Jackson to protect her.

“We’ll go,” Stiles says. “You keep an eye on the house, we’ll go get Derek.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees, which is good, because there is no way Stiles could find that tunnel in the middle of the woods, at night, even with both hands and a map. “Let’s see what kind of mess my erstwhile nephew has gotten himself into now.”

Lydia eyes them both suspiciously. “You’re sure?” she asks.

“Hey, which one of us has hauled Derek Hale’s ass alive out of those tunnels before?” Stiles asks. “We’ve got it covered.”

“Hmm.” Lydia looks back and forth between them for a moment, then nods. “You have fifteen minutes to get back here or text me why you haven’t, and then I’m coming after you,” she says. “I’ll even turn on my phone.”

“It’s like a mile just to the cave where you get in!” Stiles protests.

“Well then you’d better get going,” Lydia says. “Now.”

Protesting would probably just cut the time down further, and the whole point of this is that Stiles _doesn’t_ want Lydia tromping off into the dark, potentially werewolf-infested woods on her own, so fine. Off they go to save Derek Hale. Again. Stiles has only known the guy a week and he’s already completely at a loss to explain how Derek even survived this far.

Peter is faster than Stiles is in the woods, but at least they don’t have to be _silent_ any more. Peter’s just moving at a quick walk, but Stiles has to jog after him, because every three steps Stiles trips on a tree root or almost walks into a branch and then has to hurry to catch up. Peter waits, once or twice.

“You're sure it's this way and not one of the others?" Stiles asks, just to be sure.

"We'd better hope so,” Peter says unconcernedly. “It's the only way we'll have any chance of getting him back out if he's not perfectly well enough to escape under his own power.”

Stiles stops. "So what, if he's injured over by one of the other entrances you're just going to leave him there?"

"If those tunnels are filled with wolfsbane smoke and angry werewolves, there's only so much we _can_ do, " says Peter. "I prefer not to die trying to rescue someone who doesn't want to be saved."

This is who Lydia trusts. Stiles doesn't even know what to begin trying to do with it. He's really not sure what to do with the fact that when Peter puts it that way, he kind of agrees.

“You don’t like me much, do you,” Peter says musingly, like it’s an interesting observation with no personal impact whatsoever. Stiles can go with that.

“Not really,” he says, and picks his way across another tree root. “You remind me of Kate.”

He hadn’t meant to say that part, but it’s true. Peter’s too old, too _interested_ , too smooth, too clever with words. He doesn’t smile _all_ the time, but he always sounds amused when he talks.

Stiles _liked_ those things about Kate, once, and now he’s helping to murder her before she can kill him or his family. He doesn’t need to see it all over again.

“You know, it’s a shame she’s not going to survive the night,” Peter says, and that, there, that is Stiles’ entire case in point. “She sounds like a fascinating woman, albeit a dangerous one to turn your back on.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d have _great_ conversations,” Stiles mutters. “How far to the tunnel?”

“Oh, I’d say we’re almost there, actually,” Peter says. “Just a bit...mmm-hmm, here we are.” Stiles almost trips down into the wash, which would have been spectacularly helpful tonight. Peter jumps down with all the grace of an actual werewolf. Stiles doesn’t even want to know.

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” Stiles asks nervously, glancing from the dark woods around them down the even darker tunnel. “We gonna just go in there, are we going to use flashlights, because I didn’t bring a flashlight, but my phone--”

“Stop talking now,” says Peter, and Stiles’ jaw snaps shut with a click.

There’s a faint glow coming from down the tunnel, and everything smells like smoke--christ, what did Derek _do_ down here, set the whole basement on fire?--but it’s enough to follow the faint shadow of Peter’s figure into the darkness. Peter stops Stiles with a hand on his chest, a step or two past the chain, and Stiles can just barely make out the hand sharply gesturing towards the ground. Right. No smudging the mountain ash.

Stiles takes a single, enormous step over the place where he thinks the line was probably laid down, and shivers. They’re across the border now. There be monsters here.

Peter pauses a few steps down into the tunnel, and Stiles follows suit, listening. The noises all echo funny down here, but that--that sounds like a snarl.

“He’s hiding in the maze,” Peter says, so quietly Stiles can barely hear him. “Not a bad plan, for once. We can’t get to him unless he comes to us.”

“Well, let’s tell him we’re here and get this over with,” Stiles says, because they’ve got about ten minutes left on Lydia’s clock, and he doesn’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary. “ _Derek!_ Come on, let’s go!” His shout rings off the stones in every direction.

Peter grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him back. “That was stupid,” he says. “Very stupid.”

“I’m really not the person you want for your weird little family subterfuge games,” Stiles says. “We’ve got guns. Can we use them, or not?”

Peter’s cut off by the sudden pounding of running feet, the sound of a snarl. A second later, Stiles realizes he’s now standing in the middle of the tunnel entirely by himself, because Peter’s already beating a hasty retreat back across the ash line. “Aw, hell,” Stiles mutters to himself, and ducks after him.

It’s all dim shadows in the darkness, the occasional pop of a spark and the last bits of moonlight coming in through the cave entrance, so Stiles doesn’t even see which shape comes hurtling down the tunnel first--just that all of the sudden they’re _here_ , spitting and running, the thunder of a shell exploding out of a shotgun way too close to Stiles’ ears, and he’s jumping back across the ash line way too close to the wire.

“Derek!” Stiles calls, and then another shot is ringing out, Peter’s gun, Stiles doesn’t even know how he can tell which way to shoot in here but it’s impossible to see if he hit anything. “Come on, don’t smudge the line.”

There’s a dark bulk coming right at Stiles, holy shit, and Stiles is on the other side of the line, on the _other side of the line_ , and then the body is up and through and falling against Stiles like two hundred pounds of sheer dead weight, and if they get Derek out of here just for him to pass out _again_ , Stiles is not going to be the one to carry him this time.

There’s another growl, a pair of gold eyes flashing through the dark. Stiles swallows. Other side of the line. Other side of the line.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Stiles says. “We got him out, and you and your family of psychopaths are stuck in there. You messed with the lowly humans, and now you’re all going to burn to death.”

He thinks he hears a chuckle from Peter, a groan from Derek against his shoulder--seriously, no, if he doesn’t stand up under his own power Stiles is dumping his ass on the rock floor just as soon as he can move his arm under the weight--but the eyes in the darkness don’t blink.

“Fine,” says a voice he knows, a voice he’s heard from the other side of a dinner table like two dozen times over the past few months. “You win. What about Scott?”

“Scott?” Stiles asks. He probably shouldn’t be engaging the serial-killing werewolf, but he can’t stop himself.

“My family is dying,” says Allison’s dad, and his voice is harsh like he’s been swallowing gravel. Or barely escaping from a fire. “But your friend dies with them. Can you live with that?”

“You’re lying,” Stiles says. Scott’s home tonight. Stiles checked before he went over to Derek’s, Scott’s mom wasn’t working, he was supposed to stay home tonight. “Scott’s fine.”

“Scott’s _dying_ , Stiles,” Chris Argent snaps, looming up just close enough out of the darkness that Stiles can make out the angles of his face, the extra hair, the fangs. “Do you know how it feels, to _burn_? Do you even know what he’s going through right now? My wife, my _daughter_ \--”

“We should really be on our way,” Peter says. Derek gives a lurch in his general direction, and Stiles shoves him off, but he doesn’t move. He’s got a gun loaded with wolfsbane bullets right now, and Chris Argent doesn’t sound almost dead enough. And Stiles is frozen, because _what if_...

“Your wife and daughter are both cold-blooded murderers,” Stiles says, and pretends not to hear the shake in his voice. “I’m not sorry.”

“Allison has _never_ taken a human life,” says Mr. Argent. “Think about that, Stiles. She never broke your code, and you’re killing her, and you’re killing your own best friend for the crime of being in love with her.”

“And you want me to let you out,” Stiles says.

“Stiles, we’re leaving,” Derek grunts, which means he’s got to be up on his feet again, one way or another.

“No,” says Mr. Argent, says Allison’s dad, says the guy who used to roll his eyes and hide a smile at Stiles’ jokes at the dinner table and never looked happy when Stiles and Kate went off together, says the murderous werewolf that Stiles is supposed to be killing tonight. “I want you to go back to that house and save them.”

“Stiles!” snaps Derek, and that’s it, the spell is broken, Stiles tears his eyes away from the werewolf in front of him, scrambles back over the chain, up the side of the ravine, blowing right past Peter and Derek, because.

What if he’s not lying, what if he’s not, what if he’s _not_. That’s not something Stiles can leave to chance, that’s not something Stiles can find out tomorrow morning, that’s not possible, there’s not _time_ , and he’s already scrabbling his cell phone out of his pocket as he runs. The forest is thick and dark, but he remembers the general direction of the house, and as he gets closer he can see the glow of it in the distance. He’s not going to get lost.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, and his phone starts up, slowly, slowly, Scott’s human, he could cross the ash line at any time, but if he’s with Allison and he doesn’t _know_ , if he won’t leave without her, _You have one new voicemail!_ “Fuck fuck fuck, come on.”

Scott’s not answering. The phone is ringing, and Scott’s not answering, and it’s four o’clock in the fucking morning, maybe his phone’s off, maybe he’s _asleep_ like a _normal_ person, but Stiles doesn’t know, can’t know, what the hell is that voicemail--

_”Hey, dude, it’s me, look, Allison invited me to spend the night, so I kinda told my mom I’m at your house. You can cover for me, right? You don’t have to come up, you don’t have to see any of her family or anything, but just, if my mom calls your house, or you run into her or whatever, tell her I’m with you. Okay, I owe you one. See you at practice tomorrow.”_

Stiles is going to throw up, oh god, oh jesus fucking christ what did he do what did he do, he bursts out of the trees onto the lawn of the house and oh god oh god oh god.

That’s not a house, that’s a house-shaped bonfire, and Stiles can’t feel his fingers, isn’t really sure whether he’s still holding his phone, and oh god, Scott. Oh god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence, murderous impulses, and Derek's ever-present suicidal inclinations. Less of the creepy here, and more of the action sequences. (And yes, the chapter title is totally a hint.)


	9. Chapter 8: It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some people survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one. Just one more to go after this.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Shake It Out' by Florence and the Machine.

It hurts to breathe. Allison’s got Scott down with her, next to her, on the floor crouched in a corner half-sheltered by the cabinets. Scott’s behind her. She was too fast and Scott’s not used to his own reflexes, not used to being in a crisis situation at all, so Allison pushed him down on the floor and up against the cabinets in the little crook of the kitchen island, plastered herself up against him before he could put his body between her and the fire.

Scott’s fingers are tight, tight around hers. Allison closes her eyes and pushes her face against his shoulder. The smoke stings her eyes, makes them blur and water, and she doesn’t want to see.

The kitchen is in shambles. The first thing Mom did when they got back up here, coughing and choking, trying to beat fire out of their smoking clothing, was to rip the refrigerator away from the wall and shove it up against the swinging door to the dining room as a firebreak. Aunt Kate upended the table from the breakfast nook, scattering placemats and fake fruit all over the floor, and pushed it up in front of the door to the hallway the same way, but it’s a wood table and little tongues of flame are already licking up over the sides. The wax fruit from the centerpiece has all started to melt onto the floor, surrounded by broken glass from the windows that would all be too small to climb out of even if they could get out of them anyway.

Every so often a breeze blows in, and Allison can almost get a full breath that isn’t hot enough to sear her throat and make her choke. Every time it does, the fire creeping in around the door jumps higher.

She can hear her mom’s heart, and her aunt’s, thudding too fast, hear their raspy broken breathing, hear Scott’s heart rabbit-quick, too close to her ear. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Allison wanted to die next to Scott in their seventies or eighties, after a whole life together. She wanted to show him everything good about being a wolf. She wanted him to be _safer_ with her.

“I love you,” Scott says into her hair. “No matter what happens, I love you.”

Then he coughs, and coughs again, and gasps, and doesn’t stop gasping even though Allison pulls herself an extra inch away from him and rubs his back and pushes his face down closer to the floor, where the last of the breathable air still is. It’s too soon for him, the bite’s so new, it hasn’t even finished taking hold, it was supposed to fix his asthma but even Allison’s having trouble breathing in here, and Scott wheezes, and Allison keeps her eyes shut against the stinging of the smoke. The tears on her cheeks aren’t any hotter than the air around them.

“We’re going to be fine,” Allison promises, and maybe Scott’s not good enough at mastering his hearing to spot the lie yet, if she puts enough conviction in her voice. She has to find enough conviction to put into her voice. “It’s going to be okay, the Alpha will find us a way out, we’re going to be fine.”

Scott coughs, curls his arm around Allison’s waist. “My mom doesn’t even know I’m here,” he gasps out. 

Allison’s mom is down on the floor near the upended table, listening for any sign of her father, any hint that they might find a way out of this at all. The last time Allison saw Scott’s phone, it was on her bedside table. It’s probably a melted puddle of metal and plastic by now. No way to call for help. No way to even say goodbye.

“She thinks I’m at Stiles’ house,” Scott continues. Allison wonders if Stiles knew Scott was going to be here tonight. He was supposed to show up with guns and rage, not with firebombs. He wasn’t supposed to _succeed._

Maybe it’s not him at all. All Allison could see, when she could still raise her head to glance out the window, were dark shadowy forms darting in and out of the tree line. Hunters have been dogging this family’s heels for as long as Allison can remember, they’re the boogeymen in the dark, and she still remembers that night in the woods when the arrows seemed to come from everywhere. 

Will it matter who’s trying to kill them when they’re dead? The air’s already hot enough to burn her throat every time she breathes. In a few minutes it’ll start to blister and cook their skin, even a werewolf can’t survive that, and she can’t hear any sound of her father or the Alpha coming back, no matter how hard she listens--

 _”Stiles, what do you think you’re doing?”_ Lydia demands, right at the edge of Allison’s hearing range. Scott chokes and shivers. She can’t tell him what his best friend did, not now. Hopefully he can’t hear.

 _”Let go of me, I’ll do it myself, swear to god Jackson I will shoot you with this gun if you get any closer, I don’t care--”_ He sounds ragged. Good, Allison thinks.

She thinks _good_ , and listens, waiting, but she’s not expecting the sudden cry of pain, closer to the house, right by the front door. Scott’s head jerks up.

“Stiles?” he asks. Scott _would_ recognize his voice even over the crackling roar of the fire.

“Kate,” says Allison’s mother, more choked than Allison’s ever heard her. “See what’s going on.”

Kate doesn’t argue. They’re acting like the Alpha and Dad are never coming back, and Mom falls next into position. Allison bites her lip, but she has to open her eyes, has to look, as Aunt Kate drags herself over to one of the kitchen windows and lurches up, shoving almost her whole head out into the night.

“He’s coming in,” Kate coughs. “The line’s still there, but he’s coming in--” The front door bangs open. Scott tries to force himself up, and Allison has to push him back down towards the floor.

“Scott!” That’s Stiles, that’s Stiles _inside_ , what kind of hunter runs into a burning building filled with werewolves they just tried to kill? “Oh my god, _Scott_ , come on, be okay.”

“We’ve got to--” Scott says, struggling beneath her.

“ _Go,_ ” Allison’s mom says, and Aunt Kate is already yanking the table away from the doorway, ducking to avoid the blast of hot air that follows, and oh god, the whole hallway is in flames, how are they supposed to get out?

“You’re a werewolf,” Allison’s mom snaps, and Aunt Kate is gone, dancing through the fire. It’s not creeping around the door frame any more, it’s racing in, up along the woodwork around the doorway, but Allison’s mother is already pulling herself up to all fours.

“Come on,” she says. “ _Leave him_ , Allison.”

"Do it," rasps Scott, but Allison has a hand up under his shoulder and she's not letting go, she's not, no matter what.

"If you kill me you'll never get out," Stiles says. He's only human. He's already gasping for air. "Where is Scott?"

"He's already dead, sweetheart. What are you going to do, join him?"

"Yeah," says Stiles, and Scott lurches up under Allison's arm, dragging her up with him. "Fine, we'll all burn together."

"Honey, you're not the heroic self-sacrifice type," says Aunt Kate, but they're up, staggering, coughing, half under and half through the smoke, Mom up at Allison's side dragging her forward, and then the doorway, the wall of flames.

It's blistering even getting close to the door, Allison's skin is tight and painful. "Don't breathe," orders her mother. Allison gulps, tightens her grip on Scott's arm, and dives through.

And there's fire everywhere, it's licking down her back, up her hair, her eyes are squeezed closed and she can't breathe, can't breathe, can't--

And they're bursting out the other side, falling to the floor, rolling, Allison opens her eyes just enough to see the fire curling over Scott's hoodie. She reaches out to tear the sweatshirt off him, and hands are beating at her back, but Scott is gasping, a wet grating sound, so he's alive still and that's the only thing that matters.

"Oh my god Scott." A dark shape hits the floor on Scott's other side. Stiles is human. He'll be dead in this hell in another minute.

"We have to get out of here now." Allison's mom looms near, still up on all fours, somehow still moving. "Break the line. Do it _now_.”

“Scott--” Stiles chokes.

“Stiles, what are you _doing_ here?” Scott rasps out.

“Never mind, tell you later,” Stiles gasps. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Get us all out,” Kate growls. She’s nearby, Allison can’t see through the smoke, but Stiles jerks upwards and Scott goes with him, Allison up next to Scott, all clutching together and staggering, there’s the front door, there’s _air_. There’s air on her face, it _stings_ , but she can almost breathe again--

There’s pressure from nowhere, a wall in midair, and Allison almost sobs, but then Stiles kicks at something on the ground and it falls away. They stagger free, Allison half-dragging, half-clinging to Scott and Scott half-carrying, half-leaning on Stiles, all three of them, until somebody trips and they all go down to their knees in the grass, coughing and choking trying to breathe, it’s freezing out here, there’s air, there’s _air_.

There’s the click-click of a gun not fifteen feet away, and somebody is growling behind her, Aunt Kate or Allison’s mother, but Allison can’t lift her cheek off the cold, damp grass. They’re alive. They’re alive. They’re alive.

 

The tunnel in front of Chris is starting to swim in front of his eyes, so he puts one clawed hand on the wall for balance and closes them. There are no shells, and no way to get them, but he lasted upright long enough to see the look in Stiles’ eyes. If anybody in his family is still alive, they’ll be saved soon. There’s nothing else he can do, except think about his own life, and the alpha’s.

The alpha. Chris’s father is going to be so angry. Chris has constructed his life, his family’s, a whole empire out of avoiding the Alpha’s rage, and yet all he has to show for it tonight is the inescapable, lifelong weariness weighing him down underneath the exhaustion from this night of hell. He retraces the route to where he left his father mechanically, one hand on the wall, trying to breathe shallowly through the cloth over his mouth and nose so he doesn’t choke.

It’s not very far, really. Not when Chris is heading directly there. He hears his father scuffling against the ground in less than a minute, he’s down the corridor and around the corner not even a full minute later. His hearing’s going in and out just like his sense of equilibrium.

He doesn’t know what it must feel like, breathing all this in with two slugs of wolfsbane shot pumping more and more poison in at the same time. His father is alpha, for all the good that does him now, but he’s still mortal.

Chris’s father is alpha, but for all the good it does any of them, he might not be for much longer.

Chris stumbles in and falls against the wall, dizzy. If he’s maybe playing up how dizzy, well, that’s a child’s trick, and he should know better than to think it will keep him out of trouble. Does it matter right now?

Things that aren’t there are swimming at the corners of his vision. His father is sprawled out on the floor in front of him, half-human, panting shallowly.

The alpha raises his head. “Bring it over here and light it on fire,” he orders. Chris shakes his head and coughs.

“There weren’t any more,” he says. He’s gotten so good at controlling his heart rate over the years that he doesn’t even need to think about the lie. Half the time, the alpha would be able to tell anyway, from some minute twitch of facial expression or body language, but Chris doesn’t care any more.

He doesn’t _care_. His world is burning down around him, and Allison is going to survive. Allison deserves better than she’s had, and she’ll have a chance to get it. That’s _all_ that’s left to care about. Everything else is just blood spilled like milk, too late to put it back in and no use crying about it, and a house that’s already ashes.

“There weren’t any _more_?” Chris’s father demands in what sounds like it’s meant to be a roar. He tries to push himself up, but his arm collapses under his weight again. He was hit once in the shoulder and once in the opposite arm. Normally it would take most of a day for that much wolfsbane to kill something as big and strong as an alpha, but they were close-range shots, and the second one’s too close to the heart.

“You’d sentence your own Alpha to die?” he demands. “You’ve ruined us all, Christopher. You’ve ruined this family, you and your sister, and when we get out of this--”

“We’re not _going_ to get out of this, Dad,” Chris snaps, and his father actually stops with the shock of it. Has anybody ever snapped like that at the alpha of the Argent pack in his life? “It’s not my fault that this house is on fire, and it’s not Kate’s. We didn’t bring this family here. We didn’t antagonize Hale on purpose. We did exactly what we were told to do.”

His father’s eyes narrow, glittering red in the darkness. “Turning on your Alpha, Christopher?” he asks. “Did you even try to get those bullets? You want the power all for yourself, don’t you?”

Chris needs a deep breath, his heart is racing too fast, his blood is pounding in his veins, the world is swimming with the _enormity_ of what he’s about to say, but he can’t pull the air in and he doesn’t dare try. He digs the claws of one hand into the side of the tunnel. “You failed this pack,” he says. “And you will never go near my daughter again.”

The alpha growls. “Pathetic coward,” he spits. “Don’t you have the guts to try and kill me yourself?”. Chris reacts to his lunge all on reflex and instinct, and barely manages to duck away from the lashing claws.

The alpha lands heavily, painfully on the tunnel floor, twisting around, and Chris knows, in a split second of something like shock, that this is a fight he can actually _win_.

The whole world is a haze of distorted equilibrium and fine gray smoke, like trying to fight underwater, but Chris Argent has been a werewolf of this pack for more than forty years. He knows his claws and his teeth, knows them drugged or blinded or half-mad with wolfsbane poisoning, and he’s not the one down here who’s half-mad, yet. He waits for his father’s rush, and when it doesn’t come, ducks in, quick, aiming by sound and by feel instead of by sight, scores deep gashes into his father’s one working shoulder.

The alpha is rearing up, melting into fur and fangs and full wolf form, but his throat is still there, still right there. Chris doesn’t need to see it to sense it, the throb of a pulse, exactly the place where his claws need to strike home.

He lashes out, swift and final. His father gurgles once before he drops to the floor. Chris falls to his knees and gasps.

The power rushes in from his fingertips and trickles up his arms, down his legs, zinging up his spine. It’s electric, pins and needles, like a rush of adrenaline but oh, oh, deeper. _This_ is what it means, to be Alpha.

Chris drops his head between his arms, riding out the tremors, feeling the wave of power crashing over him. His hearing telescopes out, farther, wider-range than he’s ever had before, his sense of smell intensifies. He can hear the fire crackling away upstairs, the roar of it, the creaking and groaning of the beams about to fall.

He can feel his pack. Victoria and Kate and Allison, all three of them, bright as suns in his head, Scott dimmer and farther away but no omega yet. _His_ pack. His power. Alive, all of them alive, they found a way out of the house, Stiles came through. Tense, but just short of afraid.

Chris’s claws sink into the dirt of the tunnel floor when he flexes them. His hands are still more hand than paw, but if he concentrates, if he feels the shift, if he pushes it just _so_ \--his bones pop and reshape themselves, the fur on his face lengthens, spills over down his back, his legs grow stronger, ready to leap. He can’t see his own eyes, but he knows they’re glowing red.

He growls into the gloom, listens to it reverberate, deeper and richer than ever before. He gathers all the tension in his new muscles and _springs_ down the hallway, racing for the stairs, a bullet of fur and righteous anger. Behind him, the limp, cooling body of Gerard Argent slumps on the floor, forgotten.

Upstairs is an inferno. It’s a hellscape, fire in every direction, the inside of an incinerator, and Chis barrels through at top speed trailing the reek of singed fur. There’s an enormous plate glass window in the living room right across from the closet, and he aims right for it, sailing through the flames. There’s no time for the drama of this burning lost cause. He bursts into the clear night air in a shower of glass.

The thunder of gunfire splits the air, but nobody’s shooting at him. Around the side of the house, there’s Derek Hale and the other man from the tunnel with the Whittemore boy, holding shotguns and rifles while that Martin girl stands poised with an honest-to-god flamethrower. Victoria and Kate are prowling, poised to spring, burned and injured but not out yet. Allison is sprawled out in the middle of the clearing with Scott and Stiles, and with this whole thing fifteen seconds from exploding into a bloodbath, a massacre on all sides, they might be the only ones to survive it yet.

Kate darts in, so much slower than usual but still quicker than the human eye can follow, swiping a claw out for Hale’s injured leg, and the Whittemore boy fires after her, round after round, catches her hip with a graze, and Hale’s leg buckles under him and the Martin girl swings around to follow Victoria and the other man, the older one, keeps his rifle trained on Allison, which means that if one of them is going to die first it’s him. It’s chaos, it’s moving faster than a blink, everyone is about to die and Christopher Argent will not stand for it. He watches for just a split second before he knows his move. He takes it at a leap.

Chris lands in the middle of the field of battle on all fours, and the Martin girl goes down under him, struggling, flamethrower knocked from her grip. He throws back his head and _roars_.

Every movement on the battlefield stops.

Chris shakes his head and lets the wolf slide away, lets the snout and fangs sink back into his own mouth and tongue, until only the claws on the hands holding the Martin girl in place and the glowing red of his eyes remain. “This ends,” he says, loud enough to hear even over the roaring of the flames. “This ends _now._ ”

Chris Argent is steel tempered by fire and the solid ground beneath his pack’s feet. He is the anchor iron, the inevitability of death, and he is the ash and the graveyard dirt that comes after. He is the steady, the implacable, the alpha. He is the law. And he is, as ever, the one last blow that ends a fight.

Miles away, at the very edge of Chris’s hearing, the sirens of fire engines have started to whine.

 

Jackson needs to break something. He needs to _break_ something, he needs to break Stilinski’s fucking _neck_ , because curling up in your shower and crying is for pussies and Jackson is not going to do it. They were so _close_. He had a gun pointed _right at her_ , he was almost _done_ with this whole nightmare, if it weren’t for Stilinski they never would have even made it out of the house, and now it’s all fucking _ruined._ He has another migraine coming on. He stamps down harder on the accelerator.

“Slow down,” Derek orders. “You’re driving away from a crime scene with a car full of loaded unregistered weapons and unused explosives in the back seat. If we get pulled over, we’re all done for.”

“I’d be more worried about the fiery crash, personally,” Peter says, and Jackson seriously does not have time for Peter Hale’s smug better-than-you sarcasm tonight. He was supposed to be _done_. He was supposed to be _cured._ No more migraines, no more nightmares, no more werewolf _crap_.

“Jackson,” Lydia snaps from the back seat. “You’re not killing us all. I didn’t just narrowly escape death for you to change that now. Get us back to the apartment in one piece or so help me god I will haunt your ghost every day for the rest of eternity and you will spend untold eons of your afterlife never getting laid again.”

He hates her. He hates her so _much_ , and whatever that weird flirting _game_ she thinks she’s playing with Derek is all about, right in front of him, like it’ll make Jackson jealous or something. He hates the way she just _laid_ there when the fucking alpha werewolf took her down, and how he and Derek and even Peter had just scrambled to do whatever the fuck the werewolf said so they’d get her back in one piece. Lydia makes Jackson _scared,_ and _weak_ , and he hates it so godfuckingdamn much when the only thing he’s trying to be is _stronger_.

He hates how completely fucking composed Lydia was when the werewolf finally let her up, brushing the dirt off her clothes like it even mattered and turning her back on the whole werewolf pack like it was no big deal. Her hands were shaking. Jackson doesn’t know if _Derek_ saw, but Lydia’s hands were shaking. They probably still are.

But Lydia’s just got to be in charge of _everything_ , all the god damn time, so it’s not like she can admit that she was scared. Fine. This way Jackson doesn’t have to feel sorry for her. The whole world gets a lot clearer when he can just be mad at Lydia for everything.

“We’re all going to die anyway,” Jackson says, even as he downshifts to something approaching the speed limit. “They’re going to hunt us down one by one now.”

“They haven’t yet,” Derek says, and Jackson rolls his eyes.

“And we hadn’t burned their _house down_ before,” he says.

“Their alpha is dead,” Derek says. “That wasn’t Gerard Argent, that was his son. They’ve lost their old leadership and their base, it’s perfect time to strike.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lydia asks. “That makes it the perfect time for a _massacre_. Or did you all miss the part where they _let us go_?”

“We weren’t prepared for the ash line to be broken, we’ll do better next time,” says Derek, like anybody in this car is even listening to his opinions any more about anything.

“And if _somebody_ hadn’t decided to run off, Stilinski wouldn’t have had to go after him and completely flipped out,” Jackson points out.

“If I hadn’t dealt with the basement, half the pack would have still been alive down there when the ambulances showed up, if not all of them.”

“Oh really? Because I didn’t notice you bringing any of this part up in the planning process, when we could actually do something about it that _wasn’t_ completely idiotic and suicidal--”

“Jackson, that’s _enough_ ,” Lydia snaps. “Both of you are acting like children. We’re alive because the new alpha let us go, which means that instead of a bloody fight to the death of every person here, we might actually be able to talk them into a truce.”

The whole car is dead silent for a minute. Jackson can see Derek in the passenger seat, clenching white-knuckled fingers around his knees. Fucking _Lydia_.

“This had better be one of your plans to trick them into a false sense of security, Lydia,” Jackson says.

“This is my plan because I don’t want to _die_ , Jackson,” Lydia says. “Were you looking at the same battlefield I was back there? Every last one of us would have been down by the end of it, even if most of them were too. I think it’s past time we acknowledged that we’re in over our heads and found a graceful exit strategy.”

“If we have a _truce_ then they _live_ ,” Jackson growls.

“Lydia can do whatever she wants,” Derek says. It’s bullshit. He wants a truce even less than Jackson does, but he’s willing to support Lydia just so he and Jackson aren’t on the same side. Lydia was Jackson’s girlfriend and Jackson was Derek’s apprentice _first_.

“You know, seeing as how Lydia may be the only other person in this car capable of making a plan more than two steps long, I’d think about listening to her,” Peter says, like he’s somebody’s fucking parent or something. “It’s a shame we’ve lost Stiles. He was clever. At least _he_ made his priorities clear from the get-go.” Whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean.

“We could end this,” Lydia says. “This week. They’ve had a regime change, so maybe they’ll be open to a new order. If they say no we go back to trying to slaughter each other in peace.”

“And if they say yes, we turn a blind eye while they slaughter innocent people?” Derek asks.

“If they agree they won’t _be_ slaughtering any more innocent people,” Lydia says, even more patronizingly patient than Peter was. Jackson wheels around the corner into the parking lot of the apartment complex more violently than he needs to.

“Well, that’s uncalled for,” Peter comments, and Jackson slams to a stop in front of Derek’s building.

“Get out of my car,” Jackson says. “And take those explosives with you.”

Jackson has to turn the car off and get out of the driver’s seat so Lydia and Peter can clamber out properly, carefully carrying the last four Molotov cocktails. After the first five, more just seemed like overkill. Jackson passed the time while Stilinski and Peter went after Derek by tossing three more at the upper floors of the burning house anyway. Maybe if he’d gone through the whole crate, there wouldn’t have been anything left to escape when Stilinski ran in there after McCall, and they wouldn’t be having this problem now.

Peter and Derek haul the box and half a dozen guns upstairs. Lydia leans against the hood of the Porsche.

“You’re my ride home,” she says.

She makes Jackson’s teeth clench. She takes half a step closer, until Jackson can feel the heat off her body in the cold predawn air, fucking _Lydia_ who’s never really understood why Jackson has to kill the werewolf who’d scratched him, who wants a _truce_. Lydia borrowed Derek’s smallest leather jacket to go out into the woods tonight because it had more pockets than hers and she didn’t want to bring a purse. It’s hanging off her, making her look small, and vulnerable, and all those things Jackson _knows_ Lydia’s never been in her life unless she wants to be. Lydia’s as soft as a block of ice.

“I’m not taking you home,” Jackson says.

Usually Lydia wears some fancy flowery expensive perfume that Jackson will buy her for her birthday or Christmas or to make up after a fight, but right now she just smells like smoke. Everything smells like smoke. Jackson’s going to have to spend a fortune getting the inside of his car shampooed out.

“Jackson,” Lydia says. Sometimes, when she goes soft, when she’s not snapping at him like some dog she’s telling to heel, Jackson actually likes the way she says his name. Lydia puts her hand on his chest. Now isn’t one of those times. “Can we just forget the argument for right now? The adrenaline is crashing for both of us. I thought we could take a shower and go to bed before it all wears off completely.”

Jackson steps back, away from her hand. “Not tonight, Lydia,” he says.

“But--” She starts to follow. Jackson opens the car door between them.

“I dumped you, remember?” he snaps. “Get _Derek_ to take you home.”

He slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door behind him before he has to hear her say anything else. Usually arguing with Lydia cheers him up. Right now, he just wants to get the hell out of here before Lydia notices that Jackson’s hands are shaking, too.

It’s the adrenaline crash. That’s what makes him feel weak and cold and ready to vomit. Jackson knows how adrenaline works. He plays sports.

He doesn’t even spare a passing thought for the speed limit as he squeals out of the parking lot and heads towards home. It’s five in the morning. The sun isn’t even cresting the horizon just yet. He doesn’t. Fucking. Care.

There’s an extra bottle of vodka in the trunk that he picked up earlier tonight and kept spare from Lydia’s mad scientist experiments. Jackson is going to go home and sit down with it in his backyard until he smells more like booze than like smoke, until he’s got a _real_ reason to look and feel this much like shit, until the shaking stops. Then he’s going to throw up, and take a shower, and go to lacrosse practice three hours early so he can throw balls at an empty goal until his arms hurt more than his head and run sprints around the empty field until he’s ready to pass out. Then the rest of the team will show up, and he’ll do it all again.

When Jackson’s moving, when he’s pushing his body all the way to the limits of what it can manage and even past them, when he’s _working_ , he doesn’t have time to be scared.

 

By the time they load Scott into the ambulance, he's mostly stopped coughing, but he's no clearer on what's going on. There aren't any good chances to ask questions. Stiles is in the ambulance with him but the paramedics made him lie down, and he's still coughing these deep, wet hacking coughs, like Scott was in the middle of all the smoke. The paramedic in the back with them keeps glaring at Scott when he lowers the oxygen mask off his face, even though Scott’s breathing pretty well now and he really doesn't think he needs it anymore, but it's not like Scott could start asking questions even if he knew what to ask or Stiles could answer him anyway.

He thinks the sheriff probably told the paramedics about his asthma, somewhere in between all the yelling and the fire engine sirens that hurt almost as much as running through the fire had. They shoved him up in the first ambulance before he even had a real chance to tell Allison goodbye. He's going to be in so much trouble when his mom find out about this. He doesn't even know what Stiles is going to tell his dad.

The hunters all disappeared before the emergency responders got there, off into the forest. Scott doesn't know what's going to happen there, either. He barely got a good look at them before Mr. Argent took all their ammunition and sent them off, but Scott can't even imagine showing up for lacrosse practice Monday after Jackson Whittemore actually tried to _kill him_.

Twenty-four hours ago, Scott was...well, actually, he was still asleep, because his alarm clock doesn’t go off until 6:45 on school days. He was totally asleep, and the most confusing thing in his life was how to deal with the fact that his best friend and his girlfriend didn’t seem to like each other very much any more. Now there are _werewolves_ , and he _is_ one, which he still can’t really believe except that he can track every thump of Stiles’ heartbeat, and both paramedics, even the one up in front driving. He’s a werewolf, and there are people who want to kill him just for existing. Scott’s life officially makes _no sense_ any more.

All the lights at the hospital are too, too bright, and there are so many _sounds_ , most of them high-pitched and whining. The whole place smells like antiseptic and blood, and smoke. The ambulance smelled like smoke too. Scott’s beginning to think that maybe that’s just him.

He lost his hoodie somewhere in the fire, and his jeans have little spots of char that he doesn’t remember getting. They hustle him into a hospital gown and run him through a chest X-ray, and Scott loses all track of his clothes somewhere along the way anyway. Every time they leave him alone for two minutes, all he wants to do is close his eyes, put his hands over his ears, and try to shut out all the _chaos_.

He wonders if being a werewolf is always going to be like this. The light, and the sound, and--is it going to be like the fire, too? Scott doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Allison promised him that doing what her grandfather said was a good idea, but maybe this was all a huge mistake.

They finally stick him in a room a little after six in the morning. The sun’s already starting to come up. Scott just wants to _sleep_.

He tries to get comfortable in the hospital bed under the scratchy sheets, even though he can hear half the sounds in the ward like he’s standing right next to them. Somebody probably tried to call his mom. She always pretends her cell phone is off, though, if work calls her in the middle of the night when she’s not on shift. If Scott still had his phone, he’d call her himself, but he thinks he probably left it on Allison’s bedside table. Which means it’s probably melted now. He’s going to need a new phone.

Scott’s almost asleep, sounds and all, when the door to the room cracks open and Stiles stumbles in, trailing an orderly and an oxygen tank. Scott blinks up at the sudden flood of light, and Stiles lifts a hand to wave. He’s wearing a hospital gown and a nose tube. Scott’s supposed to have one of those on, but the air smelled funny and plasticky, so he took it off as soon as the nurse closed the door. Stiles doesn’t heal like a werewolf, though. Scott’s just glad he’s not still coughing.

“I got my dad to tell them to put us in together,” Stiles says. He’s hoarse, but not as bad as Scott thought he might be. He’s got a thick white bandage all over his right hand, and the orderly helps him tuck the oxygen tank into place next to the bed so he can lie down. “The nurse made him go down to the cafeteria. That was a man who needed some coffee. Speaking of which--” He turns his best pleading eyes on the orderly. Scott doesn’t even have to see them to know exactly what Stiles looks like. The man smiles the way adults do when they aren’t buying any of Stiles’ shit, but they’re still new enough to still be amused by it.

“You boys need to _sleep_ ,” he says. “Not caffeinate. There’s your call button if you need something that’s _not_ against medical advice. You settled in okay?”

“Like a couple of princes at the Plaza Hotel,” says Stiles. “Can somebody make sure my dad is doing okay? He’s actually got work he’s supposed to be doing, with the giant fire and the missing persons case and all.”

“Somebody will check on him,” the orderly promises. “Now _sleep_. The both of you.” He fixes first Stiles, then Scott, then Stiles again, with a stern glare before he closes the door to the hospital room behind him.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, the instant the door clicks shut. “Did you get hurt? What happened to your hand?”

“Burned it on the _freaking_ door knob when I tried to run into the burning building to save your ass,” Stiles grumbles. “Because I’m clearly a genius.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Scott says instantly, even though he doesn’t know...he doesn’t know _what_ they would’ve done, if Stiles hadn’t come in. He can only half remember a lot of the details, towards the end, everything got too hot and sort of dizzy, and he has no idea what Stiles actually _did_ to get them all out, but if he hadn’t...

Scott really didn’t want to die in there like that. “Thanks,” he says, and looks down at his hands.

“Like I’d do anything else,” Stiles says. “Nah, I’m fine. They almost wanted to put a tube down my throat, but it turns out that two and a half minutes in a burning hallway weren’t enough to permanently damage anything.”

“Man, that would suck,” Scott says, touching his throat in sympathy. His asthma never got _that_ bad, but his mom threatened, once or twice, when he kept running off to play sports and forgetting his inhaler at home.

“Tell me about it,” Stiles says.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, long enough that Scott thinks maybe Stiles really does just want to sleep. But then:

“You’re fine, though, right?” Stiles asks. “The smoke, the actual _diving through fire_ thing...”

“Yeah,” Scott says, surprised again in spite of himself. “They said my lungs were pretty good, and they didn’t find any burns...” He doesn’t _remember_ burning himself on anything, but everything hurt, after a while, in there. He doesn’t know. Did he just get lucky? Allison and her mom and aunt seemed okay, too. Stiles was the worst off of anyone.

“So that whole werewolf healing thing,” Stiles says, way too casual. “Guess that whole thing isn’t a myth.”

“You _knew_?” Scott blurts out. Somehow that’s the most surprising thing from all night. Not that Stiles could figure something like werewolves out, but that he wouldn’t _tell Scott_ if he did.

“Kate,” Stiles says, like it’s an answer. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“You knew they were werewolves for _weeks_ and you didn’t tell me?” Scott demands. Stiles doesn’t even look _guilty_. Or--Scott can see way better in the dark hospital room than he should, and the way Stiles is fidgeting with the edge of his blanket, yeah, that’s classic guilty Stiles, but not guilty over _this_. “Is that why you guys broke up?”

“No, we broke up because they were torturing Derek Hale in their basement,” Stiles says, and Scott actually has no idea what to say.

“Are you sure?” he asks, because Stiles isn’t talking any more which means that Scott has to say _something_.

“No, Scott, I’m sure the manacles and the broken ribs were totally consensual,” Stiles snaps. “Maybe he begged me to kill him when I found him down there as part of some kinky role-playing game.”

It’s the bitterest Scott’s ever heard Stiles about anything in his _life_. He can’t even process...sure, Kate’s scary, but...

“They’re not good people, Scott,” Stiles says, sounding so tired and angry and defensive that he doesn’t even need to say anything more. Scott _knows_.

“You helped them set that fire?” Scott demands. It’s not a question because he doesn’t already know the answer, it’s a question because he doesn’t _believe_ it. “You almost killed me!”

“Yeah I _know_ that, Scott, which one of us intentionally ran into a burning building to drag the other one out _without_ any superpowers to help survive the adventure?” Stiles snaps. “You were supposed to be at home. You weren’t even supposed to _be_ there.”

“What about Allison?” Scott asks. She has to be okay, right? She was fine when the ambulance left the Argent house, sitting on the tailgate of another ambulance being given oxygen with her dad standing right there. But Stiles...

“Allison’s one of them, Scott,” Stiles says. “They’re serial killers. They’re freaking Hollywood movie monsters, okay, you know what you do with Hollywood movie monsters. Kate killed Harris with her own bare claws because she was _bored_.”

“Allison’s not like that,” Scott says stubbornly. “I can’t believe you’d even think that. I can’t believe you tried to _kill my girlfriend_.”

“Yesterday at lunch Allison pulled me aside and threatened to kill you,” Stiles says flatly. “She said they were going to make you one of them, and if I got in their way or made things too dangerous, she and the pack would make sure it would all fall on you. That’s _after_ Kate basically promised to kill my dad and then me if I ever told anybody about anything. I’m sorry if it bothers you, but yeah, I would rather be a killer than be dead, and I’d rather be a killer than let some fucking _werewolf_ turn you into one.”

“I’d never do that.” Scott doesn’t even understand what he’s hearing here. “You thought I’d do something like that? You really thought I could kill someone?”

“I thought they’d _make_ you, or they’d kill you _instead_ , Scott,” says Stiles. “Okay, tell me, have you ever seen anybody tell Allison’s grandfather ‘no’? You haven’t, have you. He could say that the weather tomorrow was going to be partly cloudy with a chance of occasional time vortex, and they’d all just nod and go with it. You could tell, Allison’s dad _hated_ me and Kate, but the old man thought it was fine, so nobody said a thing. Allison’s mom? Newsflash, Scott, she _hates you_.”

“She doesn’t hate me,” Scott interrupts automatically. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Really kinda does,” he says. “But Allison’s grandfather thought you guys were cute, so you got to date. You got to stay over whenever you wanted. Think about what kind of family does that. Think about what happens when that guy says, hey, now you have to kill somebody.”

Allison _wouldn’t_ , not if it really came down to it. Scott _knows_ that. Maybe Stiles has a point about her family, but Allison _wouldn’t_.

“You don’t know what would happen,” Scott says. Stiles sighs.

“They taped electrodes to his side,” Stiles says. “They hung him up by his wrists until his feet were barely touching the ground, and they left him there for three days until I found him by accident. He had electrodes taped to his side, and I know they moved them around every once in a while because while I was hauling him out of there I could see the burns. I know Kate’s claw marks when I see them, but she wasn’t the only one who left scratches on the guy. You didn’t see him, Scott. You haven’t seen some of the research Lydia’s got, on what they did in the towns they were in before this one. And I know you always like to think _really good things_ about people, but...”

He trails off. Stiles talks a lot, but he runs out of the right words kind of a lot. This time, all he does is make an incoherent little hand gesture and fall back against his pillows.

Scott is still stuck on _hung him by his wrists_ and the bitter _anger_ in Stiles’ voice, and doesn’t really know what to say himself. So. Silence.

“You’re my best friend, Scott,” Stiles says eventually, not raising his head from the pillow, staring directly up at the ceiling. “If you’re a werewolf now, then fine, we’ll make it work, but you’re not like them, and you’re not ever going to be like them. If I have to kill people for that, so be it.”

“I don’t...” Scott starts, and then stops, because there are way too many ways to end that sentence, and he has no idea which one he wants to choose.

“Go to sleep,” Stiles says. “Your mom’s going to have to finally give in and answer her cell phone eventually, and you’re going to want to at least pretend you got some rest when she shows up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parent-child violence and murder. Detailed descriptions of fire and fear and the sort of unpleasant things that happen when trapped in a burning building.


	10. Chapter 9: And you shed not a single tear for the things you didn't need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a denouement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> I need to take this opportunity to re-thank my _fucking glorious_ betas, and also all of you who put up with this whopper of a story right through. I do, actually, love this ridiculous impossible fic, even after all this time. It's been a privilege to get to share it, and I can only hope some of you love it too.
> 
> When I sat down to start this story, my only intention was to write a 3- to 5k summary of a chatfic I'd told Crown_of_Weeds, so I could put it up on tumblr. What happened instead...I'm still a little amazed. Some stories write themselves. I never really understood what authors meant, saying that, until now.
> 
> There's probably going to be some meta discussion of this over at [my tumblr](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com) this week, along with the regular chat, blather, and frequent fic snippets and one-shot prompt responses that never make it as far as AO3. Do come on over and join us.
> 
> Title for this chapter comes from 'Your Heart Is An Empty Room', by Death Cab For Cutie. (The full soundtrack for this fic, all the chapter heading songs and a few extra additions, should be available soon.)
> 
> Not too much in the way of additional warnings here, but they are, as ever, at the end.

Victoria’s husband handles most of the police discussion. It’s his right as well as his responsibility now, she supposes. It will take time to accustom herself to her husband’s new role. It won’t play well, to call him ‘sir’ in public. 

Of course she’ll defer to his judgment on that. It’s how any good pack member survives, whether the alpha is father, father-in-law, brother, husband, no matter who he was yesterday. The pack runs because everyone in it has a place. The alpha’s place, of course, is to set everyone else’s.

He looked at her when they needed a story concocted. It has to match, of course, with whatever Scott and the Stilinski boy say, since that boy didn’t have the good sense to run with the rest of the hunters. It has to fit perfectly, and Victoria’s alpha was looking at her, so she leaned into the sheriff with her next faked cough, let him chivalrously support her weight right in front of his son’s eyes, before she answered the question.

“The boys came over for dinner,” she said. “It got late, and we agreed that they should stay, on the couch and in the guest room of course. We went to bed, and the next thing you know, somebody was shouting about a fire.” It’s the skeleton of a cover, simple enough that even the boys should be able to remember it, and will, if they know what’s good for them. The Stilinski boy has every reason to be terrified. Victoria can only hope that the new alpha will be able to hold Scott in his power as well as the old one would.

It doesn’t matter worth a damn what the old alpha would have done, now. Victoria joined the Argent pack eighteen months after the last alpha died. She has never asked how. She’s known for years anyway, but she never asked. Any alpha besides the one with the power to tear out your heart, doesn’t matter.

The paramedics cleared them at the scene, besides the boys, Scott too new to heal as fast as he should and the Stilinski boy far too pathetically human. Allison’s car survived, parked farthest away from the house, so they drove into town and found a hotel that would take them on the basis of the emergency cash from Allison’s glove compartment with no ID required.

Allison and Kate have been here all day in one double room, sleeping or showering off the reek of smoke or doing anything at all, so long as it’s involved staying entirely indoors. The best they can do right now is to stay perfectly safe, where their new alpha doesn’t have to worry about them. He’s spent his day dealing with the police and the fire marshall, keeping his pack protected. The least they can do is not make his job harder than it already is.

Victoria’s been handling her own duties to the pack in the mean time. The emergency kit in Allison’s glove compartment contains spare ID’s for everyone in the family, along with credit cards in various names and a few thousand dollars cash, but everyone in town will have heard about the fire by now, and Beacon Hills is far too small to get away with changing identities now. She cleaned herself up as best as she could, took a small amount of the remaining emergency cash, and went to Macy’s as soon as it opened in the morning. She’s spent the rest of the day dealing with bankers and credit card companies, going through the motions any normal family would need to take to rebuild their lives, and it will be weeks before they’re properly straightened out. It would take three hours to drive into Sacramento, illicitly obtain a new complete set of paperwork and driver’s licenses, and come back. Sometimes Victoria truly _despises_ human bureaucracy.

She doesn’t see her husband again, then, until the middle of the afternoon. She lets herself into the hotel room, fresh from an argument with a bank teller that she hadn’t won nearly as soundly as she’d have liked, and the shower turns off in the little bathroom a moment later. Victoria sits down on the edge of the bed and waits. She turns on the television to some local news channel, raises the volume a bit louder than even humans would call necessary. The alpha will turn it off if he decides that Kate and Alllison in the adjoining room need to overhear their discussion, but Victoria’s job is and always has been to anticipate before she’s asked.

He comes out of the bathroom with wet hair, unshaven, in the new clothes Victoria had left for him on the bed earlier today. He looks very much the same as he ever has, though bone-weary. The alpha shouldn’t look so tired. They’ll need to work on that. He smells the same too, under hotel soap and the mess of store-smells on his new clothes, just like the man she’s been married to for almost twenty years.

Everyone is going to have to adjust. The alpha is dead, long live the alpha. Victoria waits for his nod to go ahead.

“We’ll have enough to keep fed and housed for the foreseeable future,” she reports. “We’ll have to file paperwork with the DMV and the social security administration this week.”

“Will that be a problem?” he asks.

Traveling across the country requires a careful amount of planning when it comes to official documentation and real identities. They’ve been living under their own names in Beacon Hills, which makes them easier to track but gives them a slim advantage at times like this. The birthdate on Allison’s school records doesn’t match the one on her original birth certificate. It will probably be easier, there, to find a hacker to change her birthdate and social security number in the national database than spend too much time arguing over the paper forms at the school.

Of course, all of this could be avoided if the Argent family simply disappeared off the grid and resurfaced with new names and documentations somewhere in Nebraska, but the alpha hasn’t asked for that, so Victoria handles the problem he has set in front of her instead.

“It will be tricky,” she says. “It’s not impossible.”

“I trust you,” he says. At least that hasn’t changed.

“The police investigation?” Victoria asks, and he sighs. He rubs a palm across his face, an old tell.

“Preliminary findings won’t be ready until tomorrow, but they’ll show several different ignition points,” he says. “Combined with the places where glass clearly broke inward instead of outward, I see no way around the conclusion that the fire was deliberately set. As far as I can tell, the boys’ stories have matched ours, but we’ll see how that holds up in the face of a full investigation.”

“You haven’t set the police against Hale,” Victoria says, more sharply than she should.

“And we’re not going to if we can avoid it,” he says. “Hale’s the devil we know. If we’re going to manage to stay in Beacon Hills for any amount of time, better to deal with him than another band of hunters or a drawn-out investigation and trial. We’ll handle Derek Hale ourselves.”

Victoria’s never had any trouble knowing the limits of an order when she hears one. _If we’re going to manage to stay_ may not be phrased like a command, but it’s an alpha’s decision, and not the kind she can overrule. Whether her husband realizes it or not.

“Of course,” she accedes. “May I ask what you plan to do about the Stilinski boy?”

Something in her tone pulls his gaze down from the wall, focuses him right in on her sharply. “I don’t know yet,” he says, voice rife with suspicion. “Since when do you want permission to ask about or poke holes straight through my plans?”

“I have always deferred to my alpha,” Victoria says, back straight and eyes approximately at the level of his chin, and if there’s a note of stiff reproach in her tone, well, he’ll find none in her posture.

He groans, then, rubs at the bridge of his nose and leans back against the wall. “Christ, Victoria, don’t do this to me,” he says. “Not right now.”

“Then tell me what you want,” she says. “This is your pack now. If you want something from us, _claim it._ ”

“I want my wife to look me in the eye and call me by my own name,” Chris snaps, and Victoria looks up.

She’s known him long enough, she suspected he’d have it this way, but there are certain liberties that cannot be _assumed._ There are certain things an alpha must grant, explicitly, and must be able to forbid. Chris is Victoria’s alpha and her husband, and she’ll make sure he lives up to everything he can and must be, now, however she has to. When he’s had some time to sleep, he’ll remember why.

“You’re the alpha of this pack,” Victoria says to him. “We have a duty to you just as you have a responsibility to us.” He’ll fulfill it. Chris has always understood his own duty.

“I am not my father,” he says, a fierce declaration, if he can back it.

“You took his place,” Victoria says. “You’re what we have, now.”

“It ought to be you,” says Chris. “You’d be stronger at it than me. I’d give it to you if I could.”

It’s enough to get Victoria to her feet, two steps closer, crowding into his space and furious enough to slap him, if she dared.

He’d let her. It’s precisely the problem.

“You cannot ever say anything like that again,” Victoria hisses, voice low, though if Kate or Allison were listening too hard a moment ago the damage is already done. “You are the _alpha_ , whether you like it or not. There’s no room for self-pity in that, Chris. You lead us, or we all die. Those are the only two options.”

“Fine,” he growls back, lowering his head until there’s barely an inch between their faces. “Then stop pretending you’re not prepared to manipulate me into being whatever kind of alpha you think I’m supposed to be, by whatever means necessary.”

Chris does, after all, know her every bit as well as she knows him. Slowly, Victoria smiles.

“Better,” she says, and steps away.

“I don’t want to play these games, Victoria,” Chris says warningly. “We’re doing this straightforwardly, like we’ve always done it. In public you follow my orders, and in private you tell me what you really think. I’m not my father. I’m not going to make the same mistakes that he made. I’m not infallible, and it’s your job to call me on it when I’m getting something wrong.”

“And when we disagree?” Victoria asks. “We do, from time to time, disagree.”

“You do your best to persuade me and then you let it go,” Chris says. “I trust your opinion more than anybody else in the world, but in the end my mistakes are my own. You’re the one who doesn’t want to undermine my authority.”

Allison has spent a full seventeen years living under the old man’s authority. She’s never properly had to think for herself a day in her life. Now here she is with that _boyfriend_ of no solid loyalties, ripe to be torn from her family if they’re negligent enough to let her go. Kate is a self-indulgent, impetuous child who’s never once shared Chris’s views on killing for sport. If Chris isn’t ready to exercise his authority, to claim the role he’s taken for himself, then nobody survives.

“Good,” she says. “Very good.”

 

Nobody says anything to Allison about Scott for four days. She doesn’t dare ask, not with everything as crazy as it is, not with the way her mother’s eyes seem constantly narrowed and Aunt Kate is watching Allison’s dad like he might go off at any minute. They’re buying another house in Beacon Hills, as soon as money gets cleared up. They’re _staying_. Scott must be okay. She’d have heard if he wasn’t, right?

Allison doesn’t have a laptop or a cell phone any more, so it’s not like he could contact her. She hasn’t been to school. Her house burned down, the whole town knows. Her teachers will have to be understanding.

Her mother drags her around, to the police station to give statements, to the bank and the DMV, back to Macy’s for more clothes, to the building office for the new housing development on the south side of town. She keeps quiet while her mother and Aunt Kate pick out new blouses and granite countertops, discussing options in scary-polite tones that make Allison’s toes curl inside her new shoes.

Tuesday night, her dad brings bags of Chinese takeout back to the hotel. They eat in the room Allison’s been sharing with Kate. Her father carried the desk chair in from her parents’ room a few days ago, so he eats next to her mother around the crappy fake-wood desk. Kate sits on the bed and eats her beef and broccoli right out of the carton with disposable chopsticks, and Allison sits near her feet on the floor. It’s not at all like the formal family dinners Allison’s used to. There’s a weird little thrill to it.

She keeps expecting her grandfather to walk in the door and raise his eyebrows at them for eating like slobs, then chuckle indulgently and wave a hand that it’s okay, just this once. Instead there’s Allison’s dad, offering Allison’s mom the ginger sauce for their dumplings and sticking in the corner of Allison’s mind, the corner of her eye, with the same sort of _presence_ her grandfather had for her whole life. It’s unreal. It’s like some line or anchor string’s been cut, and she’s not quite floating away, not with her aunt and her parents here to hold her where she belongs, but everything’s shifted around.

“I saw Scott yesterday, from a distance,” says her dad. “Allison, you’ll need to check in on him. We don’t need any trouble from a newly-turned werewolf that doesn’t know how to anchor properly yet.”

Allison fumbles her chopsticks and almost drops them into the lo mein. “Sure I will, of course,” she promises. “When?”

“Tonight,” says her dad, and that’s the end of that, Allison has ten minutes to finish her dinner and fix her makeup in the bathroom and then she’s out the door. She’s on her way to go see Scott, for the first time since a bunch of hunters including his best friend tried to kill them all. 

He hasn’t sought them out. Allison’s dad isn’t the one who bit Scott, but she can still feel the tug of her father’s power no matter where she is in town, and Scott must be able to feel something too. If not the pull of Allison’s father’s power, then he must at least sense the pull of the pack. Anything. But he hasn’t come looking for them, and she doesn’t know what that means.

Her parents’ car is charred, and the windshield wipers melted right onto the glass, but it’s driveable, which is more than they can say for Aunt Kate’s. Until they can get it fixed or replaced, though, it’s also the most distinctive SUV in town. Allison’s car isn’t really _hers_ any more, not right now. She spends a moment outside the hotel looking between the parking lot and the scrubby trees beyond it before she shoves her keys deep into her jeans pocket. It’s dark. She’ll run.

It’s the first time she’s shifted all the way since the fire, the first time she’s been _alone_ in four days, and it’s scary enough to have her heart pounding in ways that have nothing at all to do with exertion. There’s no scent of gun oil on the breeze, though, no crackle of a boot on leaves, no threat at all the whole way to Scott’s house. She runs without the pack right over her shoulder, and she survives. For now.

Aunt Kate’s been having nightmares, too, which is almost scarier than Allison’s own dreams. Her parents go to sleep in the other room with the TV on, so Allison doesn’t know if they’re trying to hide something, can’t hear if they’re trying to give themselves a little privacy for life-affirming sex or if they’re waking up with their hearts pounding, too, just like she is. She doesn’t want to know.

It’s only 8:00, and Scott’s mom’s car is right there in the driveway. Allison ducks around to the side of the house, flips up onto the porch as quietly as only a born wolf can, and peeks through his window.

He’s at his computer. It looks like homework, though, not Skype, and that’s an unexpectedly good sign.

A week ago, Allison would have slid the window up near-silently, slipped inside, and waited with a grin for Scott to notice her. Tonight she waits for a long moment, biting her lip in indecision, before she reaches out with a long claw to tap on the glass.

Scott jumps. Allison taps again, and then he sees her, and...she doesn’t know _what_ his reaction is. His heartbeat jumps, but he’s not frowning or recoiling, not smiling that soft Scott smile that she’s only ever seen him give to her. He’s walking over to the window, slowly, like he has to be careful now. Allison lays one palm flat against the window and digs her still-human nails into her other palm.

Scott slides the window open. “Hey,” he says. “You wanna come in?”

“Do you want me to?” Allison asks. Scott looks surprised for a second, steps back, gestures to the open space in front of the window.

“Come on, it’s cold out there.” Okay. Allison slides inside.

“So, um, how’s your family?” Scott asks. “Is everyone doing okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re fine,” Allison says. She glances over at him, looks back over at his desk. It’s like when they were first flirting all over again.

“What about your grandfather?” Scott asks, and Allison starts. Of course, he _wouldn’t_ know what it meant, when Allison’s father burst onto the lawn in full alpha form, what everybody else in the pack _felt_ minutes before. Allison hadn’t known what that full-body shiver was, not until she saw her father. She’d never felt the death of an Alpha before. And Scott, he’s so new, he couldn’t possibly...

“He’s dead,” Allison says. “Derek Hale killed him. My dad’s the alpha now.” _Scott’s_ alpha, if she can get Scott to come back to the pack with her. If, if, if.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” The thing about Scott is he’s always so _sincere_. He reaches out, grabs her hand. “Come on, sit down. Are you okay? Like, really okay?”

It’s so _easy_ to just fold herself down, to lean into Scott’s side, to let him put an arm around her shoulders. He smells the same, soap and aftershave and teenage boy sweat, just a little extra undertone of gamey, musky _wolf_ that Allison would know anywhere. It’s the way home and safety _should_ smell, and she’s been so afraid.

“We’re fine,” Allison says to Scott’s collarbone. “The pack moves on. He’d want us to keep going.”

“Yeah, of course.” Scott’s hand is warm on her arm, thumb stroking across the top of her shoulder in repetitive little circles. “Are you...are you sure it was Derek Hale?”

Allison lifts her head. “He’s a hunter, Scott,” she says. “That’s what they _do_. He was down in the basement with my father and my grandfather, when they were trapped. My father just got lucky.”

“Okay,” Scott says. “Okay, look, I’m not saying...murder is _wrong_ , what those hunters did to your family, it’s _wrong_ , okay?”

“Okay...” Allison doesn’t like where this is going.

“Did your family really torture Derek Hale?” Scott asks. The tone of his voice means he already knows the answer, and the _judgment_ makes Allison feel sick. She tugs away, just a few inches between them on the bed, and Scott lets her.

“We had to, Scott,” she says. “They attacked us first. They had traps, they practically mined the whole forest. We needed information before they managed to kill us all.” Not that they’d gotten any, or that it had helped them in the long run, but until Derek escaped he’d been their best, their only chance.

Scott looks sick.

“Did you _help_?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t, it was mostly Kate’s job,” Allison says, because it’s the truth and it seems to be what he wants to hear, but it doesn’t make Scott look any happier.

“You’ve never killed anybody,” he says. “Right?”

“I haven’t. I told you I haven’t.” Allison doesn’t know how they’re going to make Scott _see_ , without her grandfather, who always knew how to make everybody see his point of view eventually. “Would it really be that bad?”

“Allison, _yes_ , murder is _bad_!” Scott waves his hands in exasperation. “Come on, you _know_ this.”

“They tried to _kill_ us, Scott!” Allison argues. “They tried to burn us alive, they killed my _grandfather_ \--”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it _right_!” Scott sighs. “You can’t just go killing everybody who tries to kill you, that’s how everybody ends up dead!”

“We’re _wolves_ , Scott,” she says. “I don’t know what you want from me. You’re a predator now, just like us, we’re stronger, we’re _better_.”

“We’re not _better than other people_ , Allison!” Scott stands up, too worked up to sit still or maybe too worked up to sit next to her any more. Allison stands up, too. She doesn’t have the _words_ for this.

“This is what wolves are, Scott,” she says, trying to remember all the things her grandfather had said over the years, trying to figure out some of what the Alpha would have told Scott, eventually, if there had been time. “We protect our pack. We don’t turn on each other. We hunt our prey, it’s how the world is supposed to _work_. We _gave_ you that, so we could be together, so you could be _healthy_. We _gave_ it to you. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it.”

“No,” Scott says, shaking his head, backing away. “I didn’t agree to that. I’m not a killer, I didn’t want _that_.”

“ _What did you think I was?_ ” Allison demands. Her face is wet. Scott _knows_ her. He’s always known her, better than anyone outside her family she’s ever met. He can read her moods, he can tell when she needs to be hugged or left alone, he _knows_ her. And even if they never talked about it, even if she never explained, he had to _know_ , somewhere, deep down, what Allison _is_. He had to know what he was getting into. He knows _her_.

“You’re not _this_!” Scott says. His eyes flash gold; he’s getting upset, it’s exactly what Allison’s father _hadn’t_ wanted. “I know you’re not a murderer, and if your family thinks you should be, then they’re _wrong_ , because I know you’re better than that. Why does everybody in my life think _killing people_ is the solution to their problems!”

“You don’t know my family,” says Allison. “You’ll understand. You have to feel it, you’ve just been bitten. You have to want to, don’t you, it’s been days...”

“But I haven’t _done_ anything, and I’m not _going_ to,” Scott says, even though there’s more hair on his face than there was a minute ago, and Allison knows his fingernails must be sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not hurting _anybody_.”

“You won’t be able to stop,” Allison says, and maybe this was what her dad meant all along. Everybody knows a wolf without a pack is more of a danger to themselves than anybody they actually mean to hurt. Everybody knows that _omega_ means...means worse than death. The wolf alone is _nothing_ , weaker than a human, more mindless than an animal.

Scott needed time by himself, but he’s not an _omega_. He can’t be.

“That’s what the pack is for, Scott,” she pushes. “It’s not just about killing, it’s about having the Alpha there to stop you from killing when you don’t want to. It’s about having everyone around you there to keep you grounded.”

“I don’t want to ask your dad to tell me when I should kill somebody and when I shouldn’t!” says Scott. “I don’t want to kill anybody, ever.”

“Then you _need_ us,” Allison says. “The full moon’s in two weeks. You can’t stop yourself without an alpha there.”

Scott is standing, head low, arms tight, holding himself like Allison’s seen new betas do when they’re trying to keep control. She’s always had the pack, her whole life, but it’s hard for the new ones. Allison steps forward, carefully, and cups one hand over the side of Scott’s face. He turns into it, breathes in the smell of her skin, like a good beta _should_ do. Allison takes another step closer and slows her breathing deep and even, gives him something to focus on, lets Scott take comfort in the presence of his pack.

“It’s okay,” Allison murmurs, and tilts Scott’s head up to look at her. “It’s going to be okay, Scott. I promise.”

She strokes her thumb over his cheek, and the fur recedes from her touch. Scott’s taking quiet, shuddering deep breaths, but he’s calming down. She can hear his heartbeat dropping back towards normal. He’ll learn quickly. He’s already getting it.

“Allison...” Scott says.

“I love you,” she promises. “Will you come back and see the pack with me? Please?”

His eyes are brown again, and warm. “What’s the pack planning on doing about Derek Hale?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Allison says honestly. “My dad doesn’t want a war.” Scott nods, so at least that answer lives up to his ideals.

“What about Stiles?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, again. Her dad hasn’t said anything, just that they’re going to be staying and he wants to avoid a war, but he can’t be planning to let all the hunters live, can he? “We can ask,” Allison tries. “He saved us, so maybe if you talk to my dad...”

“What _were_ you planning on doing to Stiles?” Scott asks her, and Allison’s heart thumps a little quicker in a rhythm nobody in her family would miss. “Before the fire.”

“He set our house on fire,” Allison says, because it’s _true_ , at least. “He tried to kill us all, he only let us out because of you...”

“You were going to kill him,” says Scott, still somehow _incredulous_ , and Allison drops her hand from his face before he can pull away. “Allison, he’s my _best friend_.”

“It’s not like he’s innocent, Scott,” she says. “We have to keep the pack safe. We _have_ to. It’s all we’ve got.”

Scott closes his eyes and ducks his head until his forehead is leaning against hers, rests his palms on her shoulders, squeezes, tighter than he ever would have when he thought they both were human. “I love you, Allison,” he says, like it hurts.

“I love you too,” Allison says, and wonders why she can’t find any words to make it _better_.

“I think,” says Scott, “that you need to go. For a while. And I’ll talk to you, I promise, and I’ll talk to your dad before the full moon, but right now...I really just think I need you to go.”

“Scott...”

“I love you,” he promises. “I do, but I can’t...I just _can’t_ right now, okay?”

It’s still crisp and clear and dry outside, when Allison lets herself back out the window into the night. There are no hunters lurking in wait on her run back to the hotel, either, which is probably a good thing. She wouldn’t have noticed them if they were there.

 

Peter is better at reading and manipulating people than Lydia is. It’s a fact that she’s sticking in the back of her mind, to remember and worry about in the future, but for now it’s an asset. Right now, he’s on her side.

Jackson isn’t speaking to her at all, and Derek is wallowing in sullen fury because nothing at all in his grand plan for a heroic final blaze of vengeance and glory to commemorate the family name has gone right since the night he decided to drag Jackson home to train. The important part is, between them, Lydia and Peter can stop Derek and Jackson from doing anything too stupid.

She’s not entirely sure how much Peter _wants_ to, when he’s the second-to-last surviving Hale himself, not to mention the one who let Derek shuffle off down into the tunnels with nothing but a few bottles of experimental vodka and half a prayer. Peter Hale is, however, what she _has_ , so they’re sitting side by side on the faded vinyl of a corner booth in _Auntie Mae’s_ , sipping coffee together like they trust each other. They must, a little, or they wouldn’t even be here like this. Negotiations are going to be hard enough just coping with the people on the other side of the table.

The Argents show up about twenty minutes after Lydia and Peter sit down. Part of it’s probably arrogance, the desire to make an entrance, and the surety that they could smell an ambush if the hunters had set one up. Part of it is the fact that Lydia and Peter got to the diner forty-five minutes early. Lydia has a plate of half-eaten French toast in front of her, next to an empty fruit cup. For a little diner that hasn’t changed its wallpaper since about 1972, their breakfast is surprisingly edible.

Christopher Argent stops next to their table, his blonde sister half a pace behind him and to the left. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” he says, and Peter inclines his head, makes a show of politely dabbing his mouth while he pretends to swallow a bite of egg, although Lydia knows he hasn’t lifted his fork since the door opened and the werewolves walked in.

“Peter Hale,” he says, offering his hand, though he doesn’t stand up. Lydia’s on the inside corner of the booth, which she’d almost protested until she’d realized that in close quarters, Peter is unquestionably much, much quicker with a gun. “My associate, Miss Lydia Martin.”

“Chris Argent,” says the new alpha. “Kate. My second.”

The werewolves eye the empty booth with obvious displeasure for a moment--Lydia and Peter took the side that faces the rest of the room and the door--then slide in, Kate first. Lydia reminds herself that building intricate conclusions about how people interact and where their priorities fall based only on the evidence of one decision is sloppy, amateur work, so she refuses to assume anything based on where the werewolves are sitting.

Peter waits until the Argents settle themselves in, but he’s smiling the way he does right before he calls Derek out on something terrible. “She’s not your second,” he says. “She’s your backup muscle in case things go horribly, messily wrong. Which I can’t really blame you for being worried about, given how we left things the last time we met, but it’s probably best to start with at least some of our cards on the table, don’t you think?” Lydia loves Peter’s array of perfect charming smiles, when they’re not being pointed at her. “How _is_ your wife? Victoria, isn’t it?”

Kate growls, two feet across the table from Lydia’s face, and makes as if to lunge forward at Peter, but Chris stops her with a single hand placed over hers. “Victoria’s just fine,” he says. “How about we have the conversation we came here to have?”

“We’d like to negotiate,” Lydia says. “According to our sources, your pack is preparing to stay in Beacon Hills for some time. We’re prepared to offer a deal to minimize future bloodshed.”

Peter waves a casual hand to signal their waitress. “That’s if you’re even interested, of course,” he says. “It’s entirely up to you. Call this a preliminary discussion. Coffee for our friends, please,” he adds to the waitress, “and menus, they haven’t had a chance to order.”

“Thank you, coffee will be enough,” says Chris, but Peter shakes his head.

“No, I insist, we asked you here, it’s on us,” he says. “You’ve fallen on hard times recently, it’s the least we can do.”

The waitress is still standing there, looking a little lost, so Lydia looks directly at her until the woman catches her eye contact. “Coffee,” Lydia reminds her. “And menus. And if I could get some more water, that would be great, thank you.”

“Coming right up,” the waitress says, and scurries away, off towards another table where the patrons aren’t quite so intimidating. It’s just short of 11:00 on a weekday morning; Lydia is missing algebra for this. There are plenty of other tables to choose from, where the ‘business negotiations’ aren’t quite so...fraught.

“What assurance do we have that you can hold the other hunters in Beacon Hills to any deal you make?” Chris asks. He’s eyeing Lydia, which is only fair, she supposes; Allison certainly doesn’t seem to have any great strategic position in their pack, and the Argents, Allison aside, don’t know Lydia very well yet.

“Ours,” she says. “Mr. Argent--may I call you Chris? Chris, when your werewolves caught Derek Hale in the forest preserve on the night of the full moon, who do you think was sitting at home calling all of the shots?”

He has to know she’s important. There’s a reason he lunged straight for her that night and not any of the others, and it can’t just be because he assumed Derek and Jackson and Peter would all want to protect the girl. Lydia tilts her chin up and meets Chris Argent’s eyes. She refuses to think about how close she’d come to his teeth, his claws. He hadn’t bitten her. It’s time to stop dwelling and move forward.

“The two of you, I take it?” he asks, more wry than disbelieving.

“Oh, no, that one was all Lydia’s,” Peter says, and she’ll have to decide later if she ought to feel a little like he’s just subtly nudged her into the path of an oncoming bus. “An excellent plan, really, all around, if my nephew hadn’t gotten into his own way. Now, I’ve been working with and around Derek for his entire life, so between the two of us...yes,” he says, and there’s another trick Lydia has to learn from him, the way the pleasant amusement stays in his voice even as Peter’s whole set of body language turns to steel. “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to take our word for it.”

“And if we don’t quite trust your word?” Chris asks, with his own particular combination of genial smile and hard eyes.

“These are peace negotiations,” Lydia says. “We’re going to have to trust each other sooner or later.”

“Ah, and here we are,” Peter says. The waitress is back, pot of coffee in one hand, pitcher of water in the other, with a pair of sticky, many-paged menus tucked under one arm. “Just top mine off there, I’m fine. Lydia? More coffee?”

The waitress is giving Peter an odd look, and Lydia almost certainly seems like exactly what she is, a sixteen-year-old girl who really ought to be in math class right now but instead is sitting down at a diner with three adults she isn’t even related to, eating a late brunch in the middle of the school day. Lydia passes over her near-empty coffee mug and tries to ignore the things she can’t control.

“Thank you,” Chris says to the waitress, perfectly polite, while Peter adds a bit of cream to his mug and passes Lydia the sugar. The whole scene is impossibly bizarre, of course, somehow even more so than any of the late-night strategy sessions or even the time Derek had insisted on firearms practice before he gave her a gun. She watches the interplay of cutlery being scooted across the table to make room for cups, offers the dish of sugar packets across the table to Kate. Kate takes two, white sugar, not artificial sweetener, slides the dish over to her brother and reaches for the cream, gracefully avoiding the waitress’s reach with the water pitcher. Peter moves his plate so Chris can move his glass and open his menu. It’s _surreal_.

Lydia firmly clamps down on any giggles that might suddenly threaten to well up. She’s at an all-important summit meeting with a pair of werewolves and a horror/fantasy novelist who dabbles in monster hunting and magic. And every one of them is apparently extremely exacting about how they take their coffee.

“Thank you, we’ll be a few minutes,” Chris says, and waves the waitress off. He’s as calm and unruffled by the strangeness of the situation as Peter is, although Lydia can tell that Kate doesn’t seem happy even without knowing her very well. Their composure helps Lydia keep her own. Peter’s been acting like these sort of negotiations are an everyday occurrence for him. They’re not, for Lydia, and she doesn’t want them to be, but they are what she’s doing _today_.

“So,” Chris says, when the waitress is gone and all the shuffling and stirring has subsided. “Imagine we are interested. Let’s talk terms.”

 

He’s the sheriff of Beacon County, goddamnit. He’s been at this job for years. He’s been a cop for longer than he’s been a father, that’s for sure, but every time he turns another page or re-reads a few more paragraphs in the file on the Argent arson investigation, he has to close his eyes for a second, no matter how many times he’s been through it before. Stiles is _safe_. Stiles is alive, and safe, only barely injured compared to what could have happened--

It’s that ‘what could have happened’ that always gets him. The sheriff has to sit back in his desk chair every time, in his office--or more often this week, the chair at the kitchen table, where all he has to do is listen past the hum of the fridge for the noises of one perfectly _alive_ teenage boy, cursing as he tries to play videogames with one hand. Nobody at the station is begrudging him a little time spent working from home.

Stiles spent most of Saturday sleeping. He probably _could_ have gone to school Monday, but he seemed oddly disinterested in milking the story of his narrow escape for all the social cred it might be worth, and just this once the sheriff could let it go. By Wednesday, the last of his cough was mostly gone, the burn on his hand was half-healed, and it was time to get back to normal life.

It’s time for a few other things, too. For instance, it’s time to admit, somewhere other than the privacy of his own head, that Stiles’ story about the night of the fire just doesn’t match up. And it’s time to stop going easy on Stiles--stop going easy on _both_ of them--and figure out why.

He knows how to pick his time, so he waits for Thursday night, after dinner. Stiles is loading the dishwasher, carefully, mostly left-handed. The sheriff stops in the kitchen doorway. He can fake casual with the best of them.

“Hey,” he says, and Stiles glances back over his shoulder. “By the way, I wanted to ask you a couple more things about your statement from the weekend. Just to get a few things straight for the report.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says. “Just let me finish up the dishes, and--”

“Nah, it’ll only take a minute,” the sheriff lies. “Just checking, you said you and Scott were sleeping on couches in the living room?”

He _knows_ that one’s a lie. The fire marshall says the living room was one of the first places in the house to go up in flames. They found glass all over the floor, some from the broken window and, according to the report, more from the homemade firebombs. At least one bottle, probably two. The sheriff’s never been so grateful for a lie in his life.

“Yes, that is in fact what I said,” Stiles confirms. The sheriff nods.

“So, you wouldn’t happen to be covering for Scott sneaking up to his girlfriend’s bedroom in the middle of the night while her parents were asleep, would you?” That would account for one teenage boy, at least. Stiles has his trapped-like-a-rat expression on. Yep, that’s one.

“No, of course not, why would I do a thing like that?” Thank god, he’s raised one _terrible_ liar. The sheriff just raises his eyebrows.

“Right,” he says. “Like I said, it doesn’t really matter, it’s just for the report. I was wondering, though, does Mrs. Argent know you had your shoes on her furniture? She seems like the kind of lady who might have some problems with that.” Understatement of the year. Even half-dressed, singed, and standing in front of the ruins of her burning home, that woman was intimidating. Hopefully he’ll never have to see her bad side, though if this arson investigation doesn’t catch a break soon...

Stiles looks baffled, which is exactly the point, because a baffled Stiles is a Stiles whose lying abilities can’t quite keep up with the speed of his mouth. “Hey, no way, no shoes on the furniture for me. Did Scott tell you that? Scott’s a dick.”

“You weren’t sleeping with your shoes on?” the sheriff asks. “Because it’s funny, when we got to the house, you were the only one with all your clothes on. Shoes, jacket, cell phone in your pocket, your wristwatch...everybody else was still half in their pyjamas and barefoot.”

“Well, hey, I took a little extra time to grab my things,” Stiles says. “Smoke inhalation, remember?”

“Stiles,” he says sternly, just the name. It should be enough. Stiles shuts the dishwasher door.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Scott went up to Allison’s room, and I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk. When I came back the whole house was on fire, and I didn’t want to _tell_ you because I knew you’d freak out.”

For a second, it doesn’t even compute--Stiles _outside_ a burning building is automatically less likely to freak him out than Stiles _inside_ a burning building--and then it clicks. “You ran inside,” the sheriff says, in the flat, even tone he uses when he knows he can’t possibly shout as loudly as he suddenly wants. “You saw the house on fire, and instead of calling 911, you ran _in_.”

“I had to!” Stiles says, and then shrinks back at what the sheriff can only imagine is a _blistering_ glare. “Look, I panicked, okay?” he says. “I got there, and the house was on fire, and nobody was outside, and I knew Scott was in there. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just panicked.”

“You panicked.” He doesn’t know whether to hug the kid until he suffocates, or just wring his neck. He settles for taking two steps across the kitchen and grabbing his stupid, _stupid_ idiot of a son by the shoulders. “Stiles, do you have any idea--”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says. “I’m fine, Dad, I swear. I’m okay.” He goes easy, when the sheriff pulls him into a hug, hard, squeezes enough that it probably _hurts_ , the brave, stupid teenager that he is. For god’s sake, running into a burning building. For fuck’s sake.

“And I know what you’re going to ask,” Stiles says when the sheriff finally lets him pull away, an arm’s length of distance and see if he gets any farther than that ever again. “I didn’t see anybody around the house when I got there, but the woods were pretty dark. I can’t tell you anything.”

“What the hell were you doing going for a walk in the middle of the woods at four in the morning, anyway?” the sheriff asks.

“Three-thirty!” Stiles says, like that’s some kind of defense. “I couldn’t sleep. I figured a walk would help.”

There’s something not ringing right here, not quite true. The sheriff frowns. “So you went for a walk in the middle of the woods?” he asks.

“I’ve been up there like a million times with Scott, I wasn’t going to get lost,” Stiles says. “Come on, it was just a walk.”

It doesn’t make sense, on top of everything else, which means there’s _more_ lies buried in here somewhere, probably more things that are going to make him want to kill his son and wrap him in cotton forever all at the same time. “You and Scott have been up there a lot,” he says. “Have you stayed the night before?”

“Yeah, a couple times.” Stiles pulls away and goes back over to the sink, where he can look down at the cookie sheet that’s too big for the dishwasher instead of at his dad. The sheriff notices.

“On the couch?” he asks. Stiles’ shoulders go too tight, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’d think a house that big would have a couple of guest rooms, but I guess Allison’s friends weren’t important enough to actually go making them up, so hey, couches for us.”

“And it didn’t get boring, hanging around with Scott and his girlfriend?” the sheriff presses. “Not worried about being a third wheel?”

“Nope, not at all,” Stiles says, too cheerful, too forced. “Hey, didn’t you say you had some paperwork to do tonight?”

“It’ll keep,” the sheriff says, and takes another step forward to rest his hand on the counter, next to the sink. “What’s really going on here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles lies, and the sheriff waits. “Absolutely no idea. I don’t know anything about the fire, and that’s what you’re investigating, so I’m going to stop talking now. Yep.”

“Stiles,” the sheriff says. “You’re not in trouble. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Stiles turns off the hot water, almost violently, and squirts way too much dish detergent into the sink to soak with the pan. “Nothing’s going on, Dad,” he says. “Whatever you think you’re asking about, it’s not going to tell you anything about the fire, because I can’t tell you anything about the fire, so just this once can you please just trust me and let it go.”

And he does trust his son, but no, he can’t let it go, not when whatever _it_ is has Stiles pacing to the other side of the kitchen like that, even though the sheriff can see from here that there’s nothing left to clean. “I don’t care about the fire right now,” he says. “I want to know what’s going on with you. You’ve been quiet lately, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that Scott hasn’t been around since before the fire. You two have a fight?”

“Dad...” Stiles glances at him, and then back away. “Don’t do this, okay? You don’t want to know.”

“What don’t I want to know?” he asks, all his well-learned _Dad_ sternness in his voice.

“Do you know how hard it is to have a cop for a dad sometimes?” Stiles asks. “Because okay, let’s just say there is something that I really need to talk about, and let’s pretend, for an instant, that Scott’s no help because he’s an idiot and he’s just going to keep saying he told me so even though this _totally_ isn’t what he had in mind, so it so doesn’t count. But I still can’t tell you some things, because you’re going to want to arrest people, and you really, really can’t here.”

“Stiles, if you know something about a crime, you’ve got to come forward,” he says, but Stiles is already shaking his head.

“No, no I don't,” he says. “I don't have to say anything, and if you tell anybody I will swear up and down that I _didn't_ say anything, okay? It never happened, I have no idea why I'm even--”

“Stiles,” he breaks in, because if he doesn't, the kid's going to keep running around in circles until he hits a metaphorical wall.

“Kate Argent,” Stiles says, and then his mouth snaps shut.

“Okay...” The sheriff's taken her statement a couple of times in the past week. He can picture her without too much trouble, blonde, late twenties, pretty. He's seen her around town once or twice since the Argents moved in, but that's about it. “Allison's aunt, right?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles. His hands fidget, aimlessly, in midair. “Yeah, we were having sex together. For kind of a while.”

His first thought is, _Stiles has never had sex._ His second thought is that Stiles means Allison, some kind of bizarre melodramatic teenage love triangle, and of course if Allison's aunt found out, or told Scott, or--

It's not what Stiles means. That's not what he means at all.

“You,” the sheriff says, caught in the numb, distant calm of _maybe I misunderstood._ “And Kate Argent.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Look you don't have to tell me it was stupid, okay, I know it was stupid. I know she's older than me, I know it was a bad idea, Scott's basically already said 'I told you so' as many ways as he can without actually saying it--”

“Oh, _Scott_ knew about this?” the sheriff demands.

“Yeah, and he didn't tell anybody because of _me_ , Dad,” Stiles says. “Scott was just trying to be a good friend, and I'm the one who swore him to secrecy.”

“Because you didn't want me finding out,” the sheriff says. “Because you thought I might _flip out_ , if I found out my son was sleeping with a woman who's ten years older than him?” Stiles flinches. He's shouting. He never shouts at home, but right now he doesn't think he has the self-composure to stop himself.

“Eleven and a half,” Stiles says. “And yeah, I knew that, and I knew you'd be angry, and--”

“Why, Stiles, why would I be angry about my inexperienced, emotionally vulnerable _sixteen-year-old son_ being sexually involved with a twenty-eight-year-old with _god_ knows what kind of history—my god, _please_ tell me you used protection.”

“Yeah, of _course_ we did, Dad, I said it was _stupid_ , I'm not an _idiot._ And I'm not _emotionally vulnerable_ , I made the decision too, okay? She didn't manipulate me into anything. Full and willing consent, here.”

“You're sixteen!” the sheriff explodes. “You're not even legally capable of _giving_ consent.”

“Yeah, tell that to half the kids at my school,” Stiles says. “I get it, okay? Kate knows a whole lot more than me about a whole lot of things, she’s bad news, I _get_ it. We’re done. We broke up. We had sort of a fight, and I didn’t really want to be there any more, and that’s why I wasn’t in the house that night, okay? That’s why I was out in the woods. And you can’t tell anybody, but it doesn’t _matter_ , because it doesn’t have anything to do with the investigation. Right?”

“It matters!” the sheriff says. He’d honestly all but forgotten about the fire investigation altogether, somewhere in the past two minutes. “It matters a whole hell of a lot, Stiles. We call this _statutory rape_.”

He’s dealt with...not hundreds, Beacon County isn’t that big, but plenty of rape victims, statutory or otherwise, in his years as a cop. He’s never raised his voice with one before. He forces himself back under control. Stiles is here, alive, in one piece, not showing signs of any physical assault, and this is not how you talk the victim of any kind of crime into coming forward.

“I know protecting her might seem like the right thing right now,” the sheriff begins, but Stiles cuts him off with a snort.

“What, you think I’m protecting _her_?” he asks, with a pile of false bravado and just enough hint of truth. “I told you, we’re broken up. I don’t have to pretend to like her any more. I’m protecting everybody _else_.”

“Protecting everybody from _what_?” the sheriff asks. It’s not a new excuse, and he should have figured it would be Stiles’ go-to. Stiles shrugs.

“Let’s see, there’s Scott, who’s still madly in love with Allison, who’s never lived in one town for longer than a year in her life and basically thinks of Kate like her BFF and her sister all rolled into one,” Stiles says, of course. “And Allison, who doesn’t deserve to have that kind of crap fall on her family right now, and her parents, who just lost their house and still can’t find Allison’s grandfather, and, oh, yeah, _you_ , when you derail a major arson investigation to go after one of the victims for something that isn’t even a crime in like thirty different states, for reasons that are so blatantly personal you’re seriously not even pretending to be a cop instead of a dad right now.”

He’s right enough that the sheriff shifts his weight, uncomfortably. On the other hand, like hell is the sheriff worried about his own career here.

“And I’m protecting _me_ , because you and I both know exactly what happens if word gets out that Stiles Stilinski managed to score with a girl as hot as Kate Argent and then got her arrested for it,” Stiles says. “I don’t need it. I don’t need to deal with what happens when _your_ arson investigators start having to ask questions like, hey, you had a fight with the lady who wasn’t even your girlfriend, did you try to burn down her house with her whole family and your best friend still inside it. Which, for the record, yeah. Totally me.” The sheriff hadn’t even thought, but god, of course it would look that way, wouldn’t it?

“Stiles, we can handle it,” the sheriff says, but Stiles is shaking his head.

“No, dad, I don’t _want_ it,” he says. “Look, if Kate did anything wrong, _if_ anyone got hurt, which I’m not saying I did because I _didn’t_ , but if I had, it would be about me, right? So can you please just listen when I say I don’t want you to tell anybody about this? Ever?”

The articles all go on and on about how to convince a victim to come forward without pushing too hard, but somehow none of them ever mentions how you’re supposed to handle it when it’s your _son_. Silence is an abuser’s best friend. The Argents have lived in more small towns, over the past couple of decades, than the sheriff’s had days off, and what kind of pattern is going on there? What happens in the next place, and the next?

“Dad, come on,” Stiles says, half-pleading. “Let it go, okay? I’m _fine_. Just let it go.”

 

Scott is trying and failing to pay more than half of his attention to the packet his history teacher handed him first thing Tuesday morning, when he finally dared to risk his new werewolf senses back at school. He’s had three days to do it, and it’s not like either Stiles or Allison have been around to distract him, but somehow here he is, 9 PM on a Thursday night, trying to get the whole thing done for Friday morning. Scott doesn’t know where the time goes.

The sudden clatter of pebbles on his window pane makes him jump, but it’s honestly kind of a relief. Scott drops his pencil and yanks his window open to stick his head out.

“Since when do you knock?” he asks, and Stiles shrugs.

“I know we’re not really talking right now, but I really can’t be at home right now and you’re the only place my dad would even remotely trust me to go, so. Here I am.” He gestures, palms out, like Scott’s somehow missed him standing right there. “I can hang out in your living room or whatever and work on algebra problems if you want.”

Okay, so Scott’s kind of still really pissed at Stiles over the whole attempted murder thing, but that’s just pathetic. “Get in here, dude,” he says, and steps back far enough for Stiles to clamber in the open window. It’s maybe a little petty that he doesn’t offer a hand to help, but Stiles manages ok in the end.

“So what’s up at your house?” Scott asks, while Stiles straightens his clothes and drops his backpack next to the bed. So much for the living room, not that Scott was really going to enforce that.

“Told him about Kate,” Stiles says. “It’s way too tense over there right now. He didn’t even ground me, he was that freaked out.”

“You told him she was a _werewolf_?” Scott hisses in shock. Stiles looks at him like he’s a total idiot, so apparently their friendship is just going right back to normal without any changes at all.

“No, and he’s _never_ finding out about that, either,” Stiles says. “I just told him we were, you know, screwing around.”

“But _why_?” Scott asks, honestly baffled. He hasn’t even told his mom he’s been having sex with Allison, and they’ve never actually tried to kill each other. Stiles shrugs awkwardly.

“He was asking too many questions about the fire, and since I’m way too pretty to go to prison I had to get him off track,” he says. “I told him you knew, by the way, so next time you see him you can have a whole big ‘told you so’ party of ‘statutory rape is bad, that’s why it’s got ‘rape’ in the name’.” He plops down on the edge of Scott’s bed and falls backwards, so he’s sprawled across the comforter.

“I didn’t actually realize she was planning on killing you,” Scott says, which is meant to be sort of an apology until he realizes that Stiles never actually mentioned knowing that part. “...You totally knew that was the plan, right?”

“I pretty much figured after I rescued Derek,” Stiles says to the ceiling, bland and blank of emotion. “I’ve got this totally baseless fantasy that Kate took advantage of that flat tire and my pathetic sap status at first just to distract me from realizing they were serial killers because she _didn’t_ want to kill me, and she wasn’t envisioning my gushing arterial spray every time I kissed her, so if Allison told you any different I’d appreciate you not crushing my illusions.”

“Um,” says Scott. He doesn’t _know_ when the Argents decided to kill Stiles, so he can’t _really_ say one way or the other. Scott slumps down onto his computer chair and folds his arms over the back of it. Everything _sucks_.

Stiles sounds about as miserable as Scott’s been, lately. “Dude,” Scott says, because he’s never gotten a straight answer on this before. “Were you in love with her?”

“What?” Stiles’ head pops up for that, and then he makes some kind of conclusion that makes his face go all understanding and sympathetic. “No, Scott, no, it wasn’t like that. We weren’t you and Allison. If I ever had any doubts, I stopped thinking about it after she told me they were werewolves. If Allison told you her family had been forced to kill Harris to protect their lives, you would’ve absolutely believed her, no more questions asked, right?” he asks. “ _I_ went looking for their secret basement. I didn’t love Kate, and she definitely never loved me, and if you want to talk about how much it sucks that you still love your ex-girlfriend even though it turns out she’s a serial killer, let’s talk about that and not about Stiles’ epic adventures in bad judgment and dating.”

“Allison’s not my ex,” Scott says immediately, and then he thinks about it. They haven’t talked since Tuesday night, when he told her to get out of his room, and they haven’t gone two days without talking almost since they met, but that’s not a break-up, is it? Scott said _for a while_. That’s a _break_.

Stiles actually shoves himself something like upright. “You’re kidding me,” he says. “Scott. She’s a _werewolf_.”

“So am I,” Scott says.

“Okay, yes, minor semantics, but you are not the same kind of werewolf that Allison is,” says Stiles. “You grew up in a family of normal humans with one asshole dad who you haven’t even seen in three years, the worst thing you’ve ever done is lie about not doing your homework. Allison grew up in a family that thinks it’s a fun togetherness outing to go running through the woods at night and ripping apart living human beings with their teeth.”

“That’s not Allison’s fault,” Scott says. “You can’t pick who your family are.”

“Oh, no.” Stiles pushes himself the rest of the way up, one finger out, pointing dramatically. “No no no, I know where this goes, Scott. Allison thinks that killing people is okay. She doesn’t need the power of true love to save her, she needs extensive therapy and possibly a long stay in juvie.”

“You almost killed me,” Scott points out, because how is Stiles supposed to know that Scott forgives him if Scott doesn’t bring it up to tease him about it once in a while? Stiles flinches back like Scott dropped a book, or something even worse than a sudden, loud noise, although those are pretty much Scott’s nemesis these days.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “Scott, I ran into a burning building for you. I screwed up and I admit that, but there’s a big difference between acting on one drastic, dramatic, really stupid plan to save the lives of basically everybody you love, and thinking that human lives are only worth the entertainment value it takes to kill them. I know you love her, but Allison is way, way beyond your ability to fix, or save, or whatever else you might want to do for her.”

“No,” says Scott. “I don’t accept that. Allison’s never actually killed anybody, and I don’t care what you think or what she thinks. She’s a good person.”

“She _helped plot and cover up murders_ , Scott, come on,” Stiles says, but Scott shakes his head.

“Either way, I need them to help me figure out this werewolf thing. When Coach started going off in class yesterday, I almost grew claws right underneath my desk. Allison could help me.”

“Yeah, or we could find you a cure,” Stiles grumbles. “You don’t need them. We can figure it out on our own. Derek Hale basically _still_ owes me for saving his life, again. I can get information. It’ll be fine.”

“Or I could just ask Allison,” Scott says. “Look, Stiles, I’m doing this. I love her. You said you knew that. I _want_ to do this.”

Stiles groans. “You really are going to make me pay for this whole almost-killing-you thing _forever_ , aren’t you?” he asks. “Fine, I will do some research on basic psychology and deprogramming and Stockholm Syndrome, and _you_ will try to avoid getting on Allison’s dad’s bad side until we hit the point where the fact that we have absolutely no idea what we’re doing here turns around to bite us _in the throat._ Literally.”

“You know, you don’t have to help,” Scott says, but that same old familiar about-to-start-something smile is starting to spread across his face. He can see Stiles’ answering troublemaker’s grin creeping out in spite of himself.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Stiles asks. “You’re about to do something incredibly stupid and more than a little bit dangerous, and you think I’m somehow just going to wander off to let you do it on your own?”

“Well,” says Scott. “You _could_.”

“Right,” says Stiles. “And werewolves fly.”

“Hey, you never know,” says Scott, and they’re both grinning for real now, which means everything’s going to be just fine.

 

It takes just over a week to actually hash the treaty out. What the hunters ask isn’t very much, on the whole. They want safety from retribution for the fire, and the death of Chris’s father, which is only natural. They want a guarantee that the pack won’t kill, at all, ever, which even they know is impossible to regulate or enforce; they’re getting a promise of safety for humans within the bounds of Beacon County, and they’ll learn to like it. Chris doesn’t need to go forcing Kate into open rebellion before they’ve even left the negotiating table. Not that he has any intention of letting her slip out beyond the county line to start wreaking havoc anyway, but let that be a realization for later. Chris can handle Kate. There’s no need to set her loose to take her anger out on their new ceasefire.

The hunters want Chris to relinquish all claim on Scott, to leave him separate from the pack, unmolested. Chris puts up a token argument, in case Scott comes back to the Argents of his own accord, but lets it go easily enough in exchange for a guarantee that no more Hales or their relatives will move to Beacon County while the agreement holds. Kate keeps her composure for that one, although Chris can read in the twitch of her lip and the lines of her collarbone that she thinks he’s making a mistake.

The hunters want Allison, and Kate almost lunges across the table for Lydia Martin’s throat then and there. Chris stops her, by Alpha command and bodily force, and she almost goes for his throat instead.

“Careful, now,” Peter Hale scolds with patronizing cheer, while Lydia straightens her scarf and hair.

“Explain,” Chris says shortly. “My daughter’s well-being is non-negotiable.”

“Nobody’s threatening her well-being,” Lydia says. “We want assurance. You have the entire city of Beacon Hills as unsuspecting hostages. We just want something in return.”

“Somebody is going to need to teach Scott McCall about what he’s become,” Peter adds. “Unless you can think of some reason either one of us would actually benefit from a wild omega wreaking havoc around this town. If Scott becomes unmanageable and has to be put down, I can think of a few different guarantees that might have to be broken.”

“The rest of my pack is much better-qualified to take care of Scott and you know it,” Chris says. “What’s the catch?”

“Young love,” Peter says. Chris catches Lydia suppressing a roll of her eyes.

“Nobody at this table is in the business of promising anything we can’t follow through on, are we?” she asks. “Trying to separate Scott and Allison would be foolish. Allison can teach Scott without trying to convert him to joining your pack, and the rest of us get to keep an eye on Allison, and through her, on you. Allison will have enough access to be able to promise you that we’re not proliferating arms or hunters, and everybody gets to live another day.”

“No way,” Kate says flatly. “You think we’re going to send Allison walking right into your den, by herself? You’re crazy.”

Chris waits, impassive, and then locks eyes with Hale. The girl is dangerous, and clever, but when this agreement falls apart Hale’s going to be the one responsible for it. He’s the one Chris needs to make himself very, very clear with. “Once a week,” Chris says.

“ _What_?” Kate demands. “No, no way.”

“We were picturing something more along the lines of after-school meetings a few times a week, with the occasional supervised sleepover on weekends,” says Peter. “Teenagers will be teenagers, after all. Isn’t that about how often you and your father had Scott over, before he died?”

“Define ‘supervised’,” Chris says, and Kate gapes at him, too shocked and appalled to continue defying him in public. If she doesn’t push the issue until they get home, then Chris won’t have to, either.

“What’s their actual agenda?” Victoria asks, much later that night.

“They want to break the pack,” Chris says. “Allison’s more likely to pull Scott back into the pack than anyone. They’re counting on Scott pulling her away first.”

“She’s too strong for that,” Victoria says. “Of course, there’s no harm in letting them think otherwise.” Chris nods.

“Exactly,” he says. “I give this agreement no more than six months before it explodes. Allison will have that long to work her way into their trust.”

“Are you hoping to take them down from the inside, or just pinning your daughter’s life on the sympathies of a handful of hunters?” Victoria asks, because she’s always been able to see right through Chris’s plans.

“Whichever one seems necessary,” he says. “If the rest of us all die and Allison and _Scott_ manage to be the only ones on either side to survive the bloodbath--”

“That boy is going to be the death of her,” Victoria snaps.

“I’ll train Allison myself,” Chris says. “She’ll be the one to train Scott. When it all goes wrong, he’ll be willing to protect her with his life, and if she makes enough ground with him, he’ll even be able to.”

“Allison’s not ready to face hunters on her own yet,” Victoria warns, and Chris nods.

“She will be,” he says. “They’ll have to let her inside when they’re trying to break her loyalty. She’ll learn to use their own tricks against them.”

Hunter training is valuable. Victoria’s proof enough of that herself.

“And Kate?” Victoria asks.

They’d had to cut the meeting short that afternoon. Kate had been glowering hot enough to light the table on fire. Chris had promised to come back to negotiations with a final answer tomorrow.

Kate had kept herself from shouting at him until they were out of the hunters’ view, barely. Chris had stopped her himself after that, with a growl that echoed even in his own ears and reverberated across the whole parking lot. _”Don’t defy my judgment again, Kate,”_ he’d said, and for one brief moment it had almost been like hearing his father speak all over again.

Twenty years of worshipping their father’s power as Alpha is a hard habit to break, but red eyes or not, Chris is still only her brother, and he’ll never be the living god their father always was. He’s waiting for the words, the ones he can see building up in her head every time he makes another new decision. _Dad would never approve._ He’ll have to deal with them when they happen, one way or another.

“She’ll accept my authority or she won’t,” Chris says. “If I’m not her alpha, then she’s no longer a part of this pack.”

He’d like it not to come to that. Chris has already killed one family member so far this year.

 

Beacon Hills is small, but Peter’s lived in smaller. His kind of nightlife has never been entirely dependent on population density, at any rate.

His brother might never have believed it, but Peter does have a sense of familial loyalty, buried somewhere under all the relative disinterest. There’s almost no chance he can see that he’d actually deliberately kill Derek, for instance, unless he had a really excellent reason. There are very few people in the world that Peter can say that about.

Preventing Derek from his own obvious self-destructive downward spiral is another question altogether, and genuinely not Peter’s responsibility. If Derek wants to end the Hale line in the mutually assured destruction of some werewolf massacre in the same small town where it started, well, he is technically a grown man now, and Peter’s not going to be the one to stop him. Still, Derek _is_ the last living family member Peter has, if you don’t start counting all the distant third and fourth and fifth cousins by marriage that Peter tends to ignore the existence of until it suits him. Peter feels mildly compelled to at least _be_ here.

If he’s going to stay stuck in one town for the next several months, at least Derek hasn’t chosen to wither away and die of alcoholism in some incredibly mundane backwater where Peter would be forced to drive thirty miles and actively summon his own flock of ghosts just to make things interesting. Beacon Hills has always been a little more supernatural than most towns of its size; no wonder, after the Hales made their home here for so long. And Derek did manage to do one thing right, albeit probably entirely by accident. He’s surrounded himself with interesting people. Peter’s always been a sucker for interesting people.

Lydia, oh, Lydia’s going to be _magnificent_ someday, and Peter can only hope to be the one who gets to mold her into exactly the kind of magnificence he likes. Jackson is an imploding mess who Derek’s been using as a combination punching bag and mirror for his own feelings, but Stiles is fascinating, all cleverness and impotent rage. Most people who are that ready to set fires aren’t quite so willing to run headlong into them.

Teenagers are so full of _potential_. There’s all sorts of ways to warp or mold them into something spectacular. He hasn’t even met Scott or Allison yet, in person, but Peter can’t wait. He’s heard such good things.

The downside is, of course, that teenagers are usually nothing _but_ hyper-reactive powderkegs of angst and potential. Sometimes Peter wants adult company. _Derek_ certainly doesn’t qualify.

There are options. Alan is still in town, after all this time, and apparently Marin has been quietly staking things out at the high school for months. Peter is going to have to pay them both visits later, certainly, but that’s not quite the kind of company he’s looking for tonight. Last Peter saw him, Alan was still insisting that he was a veterinarian. Alan is a veterinarian like Peter is a novelist: by trade, and using all of the skills and knowledge gathered from the far more interesting things they do with their time. It’s one of the most boring arguments Peter’s ever actually had more than once.

Luckily, there are other options.

Stiles shies away from Peter like some very skilled craftsman who knows their trade well was interrupted just a little too early before they broke him. He flinches like an unfinished work of art, which is tempting in its own right, but tonight Peter would rather spend his time with the artist.

Peter Hale doesn’t find people. He finds a comfortable place to wait, and lets them find him. After today’s round of negotiations, he doubts Kate Argent will be comfortably relaxing in the hotel with her brother in the name of family togetherness.

Chris knows Peter’s scent by now at least as well as his sister does, and there’s no sense borrowing trouble, so Peter parks all the way across the street from the hotel instead of right in the parking lot. It’s a nice enough evening, so he walks the two blocks between his car and the trendy little hipster bar two or three times, just to make his invitation clear.

It’s dim enough, and not very crowded, though a little noisy. There’s a Starbucks across the street, but this is fine for a first date. Werewolves don’t get any more benefit out of caffeine than they do from alcohol, and Kate strikes him as the sort of woman to enjoy a little more pretension and a nice glass of wine.

There’s a basket of shrimp puffs on the table when Kate finally shows up, and Peter gestures to the chair across from him, soda water masquerading as a gin martini in his hand. “Sit, you’re just in time. They should still be warm.”

“What do you want, Hale?” Kate demands.

“The pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company,” he says. “Now that we’re allies, I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”

She’s staring at him in suspicion, but Peter has made a lifetime of smiles that give nothing away. He’s banking, right now, on the belief that she hates him less than her brother. By tomorrow morning it would no doubt have shifted back the other way, but that’s why Peter is here tonight instead.

“Oh, sweetie,” Kate says, cautiously starting to smile as all the trappings of the setting and his unsubtle innuendo start to filter in. “That’s usually my line.”

“I know,” says Peter. “And I have a great amount of professional respect for that. Personally, I was afraid if I didn’t make the first move, we’d be staring across the table at each other on our associates’ terms forever.”

Kate slides down into her chair with perfect werewolf grace. “Seems like you’ve been the one setting most of the terms, honey.”

“Of course,” says Peter. “That’s business. And my business is just the same as yours.”

“Oh really?” Kate asks. “What’s that?”

“Bloodshed,” Peter says. “This treaty’s not going to last and you know it as well as I do. Frankly, I’m only helping out because Derek is the last blood relative I have who I wouldn’t rather kill myself, and if he screws it all up badly enough I might get a bestseller out of it.” All perfectly true, of course, and she’ll hear it in his heartbeat. Kate Argent promises to be entertaining entirely because he can share nothing more nor less than most of his true motivations, and she’s likely to even agree with him.

Kate hesitates. “Let’s say that’s true,” she says. “What do you want with me?

Peter spreads his hands wide. No hidden agendas, no hidden weapons. Aside from the various knives, guns, and magical implements strapped invisibly around his person, but that’s almost entirely the point, isn’t it?

“You’re going to be as bored as I am until this all goes wrong,” he says. “You kill humans for fun. I’m proposing we find a way to entertain ourselves in the mean time.”

“Sex?” Kate asks, arching her eyebrows in amusement.

“Oh, you can be more creative than that,” Peter says. “Not that I’m opposed, of course. I was thinking more of the kind of activities your alpha--your _old_ alpha--would have approved of before your brother usurped him.”

Kate tenses up. Ah, he’d been right, she _hadn’t_ known for sure. “You do realize that Derek only had half a dozen rounds on him in those tunnels?” Peter points out. “My nephew’s a good shot, but pumping six shots into one werewolf in pitch darkness seems a little unlikely to me even before you account for reloading time and the other werewolf prowling around with him. Derek was still firing when we found him. Of course they were wolfsbane rounds, but we both know it takes longer for wolfsbane to kill an alpha werewolf than that.”

Kate _growls_. Peter waits. He loves games he can play without even lying. They’re so much more elegant.

“Why are you telling me this?” Kate demands. Peter tips his glass in her direction.

“I told you,” he says. “I don’t have any real investment in who wins this coming fracas. I want to see it play out so the next six months of my life don’t become an endless drudgery of reminding Derek to do the grocery shopping before he decides he’d rather shoot himself and get it over with than take his turn at the laundry again. Not that I’d blame him. Have you _seen_ some of the stains hunting can leave on your laundry?” He takes a sip of his soda water. Kate can almost certainly smell that it’s not alcoholic, but that’s fine. Peter never drinks on the first date.

“So you’re coming to me,” Kate says, suspicious but warming. Peter nods.

“I get the impression that your idea of ‘fun’ and mine probably have a lot in common,” he says. “I’ve seen some of your work. Not bad. Tell me, do you plot to kill all your lovers?”

“Most of them,” Kate says. “What, don’t you?”

“I run about sixty-forty,” Peter says. He doesn’t bother to specify ‘for’ or ‘against’. Where would be the fun in that? “Willing to take the risk?”

“You willing to follow my lead when it comes to dealing with my brother?” Kate asks. Peter inclines his head politely, not quite a nod.

“To a point, yes,” he says. “If I were in the business of dying for somebody else’s cause, I’d still be working with my nephew.”

“That’s fair,” Kate says, and she’s smiling again, a conspiratorial smirk that Peter matches gladly. “So let the games begin.”

 

“That’s it, then,” Lydia says. “They’ve agreed to our terms, we’ve agreed to theirs, Beacon Hills is safe again, and I have four days to plan a party for this Saturday that will re-establish my position in the school social hierarchy for the next six months. If any werewolves show up at my front door, I’m putting wolfsbane in the punch.”

“It’s a full moon,” Derek points out. Lydia raises her eyebrows.

“My point exactly,” she says. “I know how to be civil and social to somebody I’ve tried to kill in a public environment if the situation calls for it. The privacy of my own home on a night that’s almost certain to drive McCall to homicide doesn’t qualify.”

There have been times when Derek has watched Lydia work, and thought that if only she’d been born a Storm or a Callahan or even a Hale, she’d be well on her way to growing into one of the best hunters in America by now. Then there are times like this, when Lydia mostly just reminds him uncomfortably of Peter. Derek is pretty firmly convinced that social situations and attempted murder should never go together.

“What then?” Derek asks.

Lydia’s sitting on the couch in the middle apartment, the one that Derek slept on for two months until his team started making property investment and interior decorating decisions without him, like she owns the couch, the apartment, and everything in them. Given how much of what’s here was purchased on Jackson’s parents’ credit card at Lydia’s instruction, maybe she thinks she does.

There’s too much space here for just Derek and Peter, especially since Peter has started to eye the complex’s broken-down laundry room and perpetually empty concrete swimming pool like he’s not quite sure which cutting remark he wants to make first. It makes more sense as a base for all four of them, especially if Scott McCall, the Argent girl, and Stiles fucking Stilinski are going to be checking in on a regular basis. Then again, if a pair of werewolves are going to be _checking in_ \--and Derek still has no idea how Lydia and his uncle got Argent to agree to that--it might be better to have a base where gunshots would go unnoticed or unreported, just in case.

“What do you mean?” Lydia asks. She tucks a strand of hair neatly behind one ear. Derek straightens up from his slouch and tries not to feel like a slob. She’d caught him working out, again. For some reason Lydia always makes him feel like he ought to put on a shirt.

“What are you going to do about training?” Derek asks bluntly.

He hasn’t seen Jackson in three and a half days. Derek isn’t entirely certain how he’s meant to be dealing with this without backup.

“Training for what?” Lydia asks. “Derek, it’s over. We won. We saved the poor helpless townspeople of Beacon Hills from the evil werewolves. The most dangerous one of them is gone, their new alpha is actually a reasonable man, and we’re handing you Allison Argent on a silver platter as a hostage. There’s nothing left to do. I’m taking my boyfriend home, and talking to my algebra teacher about what kind of makeup work I need to do for the past week so I’m still on track to win the Fields Medal by the age of 35.”

 _It’s over_. God, sometimes Derek loathes her.

The Hale family was proud, and strong, and protected the people of this country for well over a hundred years. _That’s_ over. Laura’s ashes are scattered, like their parents’ were six years ago, and now Luke and Samuel Hale’s house is charred black and ruined. It _should_ be over. It was _supposed_ to be over.

Instead, Derek is here, still breathing, with one more piece of his family’s past stripped away, while the Argents sit across town, one pack member down but still clinging onto life just as tenaciously as Derek seems to be. “Nothing’s _over_ ,” Derek bites out. “Are you really that naive? Do you really expect that truce to hold?”

“Well it might, if some people didn’t seem to think it was their job to start poking holes all the way through it before we even had the agreement signed,” Lydia says tartly. “Derek, I think that all things considered, I’ve been very patient with you, with the understanding that you’ve been in mourning and until Peter arrived you were the only one of us with any real experience in fighting an armed conflict, but it’s not wartime any more. There are things that you really need to think about here.”

The past few months have been Lydia going _easy_ on him? Derek’s mood is rapidly darkening. “What?” he asks shortly.

“You need,” Lydia says, “to _get over it._ You’re not dead. Your very important family legacy doesn’t have to be over if you don’t insist on whatever ridiculous quest after your own self-destruction you seem to have convinced yourself you need to be on.”

“I’m not on a _quest_.” Lydia waves a disinterested hand.

“I don’t care,” she says. “I’m not really interested in figuring out what combination of guilt, abandonment, and what I’m guessing was a truly bizarre upbringing is responsible for your issues. _It doesn’t matter_. Nobody is trying to kill you. You’re stuck in Beacon Hills to enforce this treaty until either the Argents leave or you decide you don’t care any more. There has to be something more productive to do with your time than an endless number of shirtless push-ups and crashing the computer system yet again.”

Derek clenches a fist and reminds himself, not for the first time, that Lydia Martin is a sixteen-year-old girl who doesn’t know the first thing about him. “Do you care?” he asks. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I don’t want to be a hunter,” Lydia says. “That doesn’t mean I want to have to organize your funeral. And don’t look at me like that. I’d never trust Peter to plan an event like that.”

It’s a peculiar friendship, Derek thinks, where affection is expressed by the willingness--or unwillingness--to make funeral arrangements. If ‘friendship’ is even the right word. It’s outside any of his experience. Laura was always better with people. She’d know.

“Rebuild, Derek,” Lydia says, and it’s an order. “I’m not sticking around to do it for you.”

“You’re the only one who knows how to use the computer system,” Derek says. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“I’m not even the one who set it up,” she says. “I’m not sending you Danny, he’s too good for you, and if he didn’t ask questions when Jackson and I were getting him to network an entire forest of miniature transmitters together, he doesn’t want to know. I’ll train someone for you when you find somebody competent. I expect a phone call within the next two weeks.”

“Fine,” Derek says. “Is that it?”

He’d been working out when she came in to drop off her key, and the sweat’s been drying cold over his shoulders while he’s been standing there. Mostly he just wants a shower.

“Yes, that’s it,” Lydia says, standing up, brushing her hands together like she can shake all the dust of her time here right off them. “I’d invite you to my party, but the other guests would think it was creepy.”

“Be careful,” Derek says. Lydia pauses at the door.

“You too, Derek,” she says. “Take care of yourself.”

 

Allison’s never spent a full moon entirely away from her family before, but the hunters insisted. Somebody has to see Scott through the night.

The location is Scott’s idea. Allison’s seen new betas on their first full moon, but always with her grandfather there to force them into submission, to bend their will to his own. She’d never have thought of the restraints on her own. She’s going to have to start thinking more quickly if she’s going to stay a few steps ahead of Scott and Stiles like her father wants. They’re smart about some things. Maybe smarter than her. It’s a worry.

Stiles looks even sicker than Allison feels at what they’re going to do tonight, but he’s still here. One human, not even carrying a gun, out under a full moon at night with two werewolves. Allison is a little bit impressed in spite of herself.

The fire inspector let them back into the house a few days ago, carefully, to see if there was anything to salvage. There hadn’t been much. There’s still yellow CAUTION tape up around the wreckage. They duck under it in the fading evening light without bothering to pull it down. Technically, they’re probably not supposed to be here at all, even if it is Allison’s house still, until her parents get around to selling it.

“You’re sure it’ll hold?” Scott asks, twitchy, jittery. He’s already feeling the spark of it down in his veins. Allison’s been holding the pulse of the moon in her gut all day, building up irritation and anticipation, just looking towards tonight. Scott’s holding on better than she expected for his very first moon, without an alpha here to ground him. Of course, the sun isn’t down yet.

“The cells were built for werewolves,” Allison says. “Not that I think you’ll need them, but yes, if you do, they’ll hold.”

“I don’t want to take any chances of hurting either of you,” Scott says, for the fifteenth time. Stiles snorts and ducks his way under a fallen beam. “Stiles...”

“Hey. Ignore me. Don’t worry about it, Scott,” Stiles says firmly, even though Allison can hear his heart going rabbit-quick. “ _We’re_ going to be fine, and _you’re_ going to be fine. Allison’s made it through seventeen years of these. She knows what she’s doing.”

Amazingly, it sounds like a truth. Allison shoots him a surprised glance and gets an awkward, sideways smile in return. Scott pulls a piece of charcoaled timber away from the door to the closet that leads to the basement with a rough scraping noise loud enough to break the moment, and Allison and Stiles both look away.

They’ll be able to work together tonight, even if Allison is a little worried about what happens tomorrow, and all the days after that. Her dad says she’s supposed to be checking in with the hunters, but Lydia sniffed haughtily when Allison ran into her at school, and said that Allison’s primary contact would be through Stiles. He’s got more reason to hate her than any of the other hunters do, but they haven’t killed each other yet. Maybe it matters to him that Scott wouldn’t like if either one of them wound up dead it as much as it matters to her. Probably, Allison admits to herself, it matters to him more.

The basement’s been mostly undisturbed ever since the fire, and there’s still a faint, sweet smell of wolfsbane hanging in the air, too old and dissipated to do more than make Allison’s nose twitch. Scott hangs back to let her lead the way. This was her basement, after all. She’s the only one who’s been down here more than once.

She pauses at the start of the hallway where they were keeping Derek for a while, where the space is familiar and she knows at least one of the cells is mostly clean, and Stiles’ heart jumps. Scott looks at him curiously; he’s learning to pay attention to things like that already. He’ll be good at this, soon. In another month or two he might not even insist on the chains at all.

“Not that one,” Stiles says, so darkly that it can’t possibly be worth the argument. There’s another hallway with cells just around the corner. It’ll be fine.

Allison’s mother ran all the electricity down here when they were first settling into the house, but the power’s all off anyway. Stiles brought a couple of flashlights and an electric lantern, which they set up on the floor of the cell. The chains are hanging on one wall, key by the door, easy as anything.

“So, you need anything before you do this?” Stiles asks. “Drink, snack--on second thought, skip the drink, ‘cause I’ve gotta tell you, dude, we are _not_ taking you down from there for bathroom breaks. You need to go to the bathroom before we start?”

“Stiles!” Scott growls, harsh enough to turn his features to fang and fur. Stiles jerks back, but doesn’t step away. “Just _do_ it!”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles grumbles.

“It’ll be okay,” Allison interrupts, before Scott gets prodded any closer into anger. “Scott, I promise.”

They chain him up together, one on either side, passing the key back and forth in silence. Scott lets them. If anybody tried to put shackles like these on Allison right now, she’d probably rip her own arm off trying to get away. She’s too tense and biting back a growl right now just from closing the metal around Scott’s wrist and ankle.

“Okay, buddy,” Stiles says, leaving Scott a last pat on one shoulder, and something inside Allison claws up hot and angry and jealous. Scott is _hers_ , even if she doesn’t dare do Stiles any harm.

She grabs Scott around the neck and slams her lips against his, and he kisses back with ravenous hunger, pushing against her with all the leverage he can manage. It’s fierce, furious, tongues brushing up against fangs, and Allison can’t tell if the low, growling sound is coming from Scott or from her. God, she _wants_ him, hotter than blood, hotter than anything she’s ever felt before. It would be so good, so rough and perfect...

“Okay, I’m just going to stand over here and deal out some of those cards we brought,” Stiles says distantly behind her. “By myself. Unless Allison wants to join me.” Scott pulls his head back, and right, company. When Allison steps back, they’re both panting.

“You’re going to be fine,” Allison says, and takes another step back. Time for that in the morning. They’ve got a whole night to get through first.

Allison sits down cross-legged on the stone floor across from Stiles, and he shoots her a cautious, wary smile. “Go fish?” he asks, and Allison shrugs, cracks her neck, feels all the ripple of muscles in her shoulders underneath her skin, all the muscles she’s keeping still tonight.

Because Scott. Because Scott is more important.

Allison nods, a little tightly, but with a small smile. “Deal me in,” she says.

She can feel the moon shiver right down to her bones when it rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: lots of discussion of unhealthy relationship dynamics, statutory rape, and pretty much everything that's happened in the story so far, but not a whole lot new to add on top of it. (as always, Peter Hale gets a mention just for being Peter Hale.)


End file.
